For I Have Seen Worse Sights
by forever-a-thief
Summary: "I'm not afraid, Steve. I'm fucking pissed!" Hydra may have taken his memories, time and time again, but they had never been able to take the one thing that was most important to him: his son.
1. Chapter 1

For I Have Seen Worse Sights Than These

"I'm not afraid, Steve. I'm fucking pissed!" Hydra may have taken his memories, time and time again, but they had never been able to take the one thing that was most important to him: his son.

 **August 2014**

"You know me," Steve wheezed, breathing hard past the bullet wounds and the broken nose.

Bucky hesitated, just for a moment, but Steve saw it plain as day and grasped on to it desperately. "Bucky. You've known me your entire life. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes…," he said heavily, wrapping an arm around his middle as he tried to stand taller, to look Bucky right in the eyes.

"SHUT UP!" Bucky screamed, his confusion hiding behind his fear and anger. Steve was surprised at the nearly visceral rage radiating off of his friend as Bucky slammed a fist into Steve's pliant form, causing him to sprawl to the side. Steve was on his feet again in seconds, turning to stare Bucky down. They stood just a few feet apart, staring intently at each other, as they both huffed in quick breaths.

Without a word, Steve reached up and unhooked the helmet, letting it drop to the floor with his shield. He vaguely heard them clang against the glass before falling through a crack in the floor, but he couldn't care less. If he could get Bucky back he would get rid of all of his weapons, no questions asked.

"I'm not gonna fight you. You're my friend."

Bucky's lips thinned and because he apparently didn't understand, he rushed forward and tackled Steve to the ground, the blonde's head hanging over the edge of the broken walls. The Soldier's fist reared back and rammed forward multiple times, over and over, slamming into Steve's face while he screamed out his frustration.

"You're my mission. My mission!"

Steve was nearly choking on the blood flowing down his throat from the broken nose and could barely see through his swollen eyes, but he saw just enough to realize that Bucky was looking at him funny, like he wasn't quite sure what was in front of him. His metal arm was hanging behind his head, ready to slam forward again, but Bucky looked frozen in the moment.

Then suddenly, before Steve could even choke out a word, Bucky lurched to his feet, staggering around like he was drunk. He backed away from where Steve was dangling perilously close to the edge, the Soldier's eyes wide and frightened as he looked around the ship.

"Shit, shit, shit!" he muttered to himself, trying to crane his neck far enough to look up at the upper decks. "Zaichik! Where are you?" Steve felt himself frown in confusion. Who was Bucky talking to? Was that another language? Or a nickname?

"Buck," Steve coughed, trying to sit up enough to look at his friend with confusion. "We're the only ones on this helicarrier. Who are you trying to find?" Steve was slowly fading, and the metal and glass beneath him was starting to groan ominously, but Steve had always been too curious for his own good.

Bucky turned his wide, terror-blown eyes to Steve, and they only seemed to widen further. "Stevie? Oh, oh fuck." He rushed closer, his eyes clearer to Steve than they had been all week. Just as Bucky reached Steve's side, the whole construct twisted and groaned and Steve was free falling. Moments before he hit the water he saw Bucky still dangling from the helicarrier, staring after him with a hesitation that had never been there when they were younger.

As his back hit the water, he felt the water invade his lungs and all he could think about was the plane crash, the icy water filling the cabin, freezing until he couldn't feel anything and slowly falling asleep. He had thought it was death then, and he thought it was death now. Surely Bucky wouldn't come after him, not after all that he'd been through because of Steve.

Just as his vision grew hazy, he saw a hand reach out to him, and for a second, he could have sworn he saw the sun glinting off of metal.

Maybe Bucky had come after him, after all…

 **June 1975**

Pain pulsed through the Asset's head along with the beat of his heart. He had been out of cryofreeze for too long, and he was starting to malfunction. His head was pounding, his eyes were strained, and his heart kept pounding for no discernable reason. Not to mention the quick, annoying flashes of little somethings in his mind, scenes playing out that he had no recollection nor need of. However, the more of them that became unearthed, the more he began to question his orders, and the more unruly he became.

Thus, the chair.

His mission was complete, though it had taken far longer than any of them had anticipated. It had been no fault on his part, however he didn't think for a moment that Control would see it that way.

Perhaps _that_ was why he was being led to the chair.

Or, it might have been because he had bit right through one of his handler's fingers and broken another's leg when they had gotten too close to him on the way back to base.

They should have known better by now, the Soldier mused to himself as he was led deeper into the base. They had apparently been assigned to him before, though he didn't remember any of them. They should have known that this long out of cryo left him nearly feral and downright vicious. Oh, well. They had learned their lesson, now, he supposed.

Down, down, down he was led; to the vault that housed the hated contraption. He could never remember what it did to him, just that he had woken up in it and it always left his heart racing and his adrenaline pumping with a sick feeling in his stomach.

It evoked a visceral feeling that he couldn't hold back.

They rounded the corner and there it was, the monstrous heap of metal and wires. The IV stand was shoved off to one side, sitting, waiting to fill his veins. He couldn't remember what was in it, just that it made him sweaty and shaky and sick. The techs puttered around the vault, but they always kept one eye on his movements. The Soldier grunted to himself in a stilted form of amusement; at least the techs were smart enough to be skittish around him. Perhaps his handlers could take a page from their book and next time there would be no severed fingers or broken bones.

He was led over to the chair and the disgusting, frightened feeling overtook him for a moment as he stared down at it. The left arm of the chair, the one that his metal arm would rest on, was dented and warped. He ran a metal finger over it for just a second, the flashes of half-remembered fear and pain and helplessness jolting through his broken mind in jagged explosions. He grimaced down at the chair, but the techs and the handlers were there, trying to cajole him down in to it without touching him.

Like he said, _smart_.

With a bone-deep resignation, he settled himself down in the chair, staring off into the distance, focusing on a dirty smudge on the far wall, and everything went blank. He would be pliable and docile, as he had been trained to be while in the chair. They would do what they liked to him, now. He was in the chair, and there was nothing he could do.

Once he placed his metal arm on the warped arm of the chair, one of the techs swept down and started fussing with it. His flesh arm was manipulated up to the other arm of the chair and the IV drip was inserted. Things became very fuzzy, then. He felt his heart pounding in his chest, a remnant from his first glance at the chair. Now that he was being strapped down in to it, his pounding heart and his labored breathing picked up.

When the techs backed away from the Asset, the metal straps wrapped around his upper arms and held him tight against the chair. He was sure if he was really determined and didn't have the mystery cocktail running in his veins, he could break the flimsy metal restraints. However, he wasn't determined to break free, nor was he sober enough to even entertain the thought. This was his maintenance; why would a machine question its maintenance?

Just as he was being tipped back, someone new entered the room. The Asset didn't flick his eyes toward the door, though he really would have liked to. He had been trained well, though. Just from the sound of the shoes hitting the concrete, he knew it was Secretary Pierce, his direct Commanding Officer and Mission Control. The one that controlled everything was mere feet away.

His Master.

The Asset fought the urge to squirm; he wanted to look at Control. The man was hard to read most of the time, but the Asset wanted to know if he was being blamed for the mission not going to plan. If Control was angry with him, the coming process would be much more painful.

He wasn't sure how he knew this, he just did. It was a deep, gut feeling.

The Asset could almost see Control out of the corner of his eye. The man was tall, with sandy blond hair slowly graying. His eyes were flinty blue and hard, and his lined face rarely smiled. Whenever it did, the Asset took that as warning that something was wrong. His dark grey suit hid him well in the shadows near the control panel, and his arms were crossed over his chest. His posture screamed disappointment, and the Asset barely held back a full-body tremor, before he realized that that was not all that Control's body language was saying. He was disappointed, yes; but he was also radiating excitement and curiosity.

Why? What had happened?

"I need a moment with the soldier," Pierce ordered, and the techs all took big steps back, most leaving the room. Only the head technician stayed behind, fiddling with the calibrations on the machines.

The Asset was still tilted back, his eyes trained on the ceiling as Control wandered over. The Asset had to force himself to remain staring at the ceiling, instead of glancing at Control like he wanted to. What was going on?

Control stopped right next to the Asset's left arm, staring down at him in something close to awe. But that wasn't right; Control had seen the Asset many, many times, right? Why would he be looking at him like that now?

" _Oh_ ," he breathed, and the Asset felt his stomach squeeze uncomfortably at the sound of reverence and glee in that voice, "I have a feeling he's going to look _just_ like you. Already got your stormy eyes. Wonder if he'll have the serum, too," his master mused.

The Asset fought the urge to bite his lip. Who was Control talking about? Were they trying to recreate his serum once again? Hadn't they learned from the last set of experiments? He may forget a lot of things, but the results of that little program had somehow eluded destruction. The Asset wanted so badly to meet Control's gaze, but he knew better than that. Control hated his eye contact, felt it dirty and wrong and punishable.

He was already about to go through terrible pain; no need to make it worse.

Perhaps…? The Asset risked glancing toward Control's chin, gaining a bit more information from his peripheral vision, before dragging his gaze right back to the ceiling. That quick glance had told him much; Control was waiting for his reaction. The Asset found that he really didn't have much of one, though. He wasn't even really sure what Control was talking about. Why would the Asset care if another subject was injected with a serum? He was still the best, the Fist of Hydra.

His confusion at the situation must have shown on his face somehow, even though the Asset always fought to control his reactions, because Control seemed to take great enjoyment from it for some reason. He let out a long, harsh laugh, echoing off the now-empty room, the lone tech having disappeared a few minutes earlier. The Asset bristled at this turn of events; he despised being laughed at, and Control knew this information. That was most likely why he did it.

A few more minutes of silent contemplation passed between them, before Control drew himself up and simply stared down at the prone asset. "Yes, our dear Winter Soldier has passed on his legacy. Isn't that grand? Aren't you proud?" He didn't wait for an answer, just took a large step back and waved the techs back in to the room. Even as he gave the order for the wipe, Control was watching the Asset's face, waiting, waiting, waiting…

The Asset jerked forward in his chair. It clicked. He knew what Control was talking about.

A child. His child. He had a child.

His legacy.

What were they planning to do to it? He had to get to it! It was tiny and didn't know the rules. It wouldn't survive a beating or having its brain scrambled. He had to find it, take care of it; make it understand what was going to happen to it. He wanted nothing more than to _keep it safe_.

Control seemed to think his struggle was entertaining. Beneath the humor, though, there was anger. Probably at the fact that the Asset had responded at all. No doubt the wild, uncontrollable fury evident on the Asset's face was not the response he had been anticipating.

"You don't touch it!" the Asset snarled, tugging against his restraints. Fuck not trying to aggravate Control; this was more important than punishment. The drugs pulsing through his veins made him weak and muddled, though. Under normal circumstances he would have been able to break the restraints, but now that he was desperate to, he couldn't do a thing against them. He was shaking enough as it was, the drugs having turned his muscles to rubber in prep for the cryofreeze.

This wasn't normal circumstances, though, and he fought with everything he had to break free. He snarled and cursed and spat every profanity he could remember hearing. This wasn't just about him anymore, this was about protecting what was _his_. His child.

"He's mine to touch," Control replied calmly, glaring down at the unruly asset like he was a smear of dirt. "I just wanted to see what you would do, if you would understand. It seems you have. Interesting." Then he turned to the techs. "Wipe him, then put him in to freeze."

The last thing the Asset remembered was seeing Control's toothy, smug grin. The terrible, overwhelming sense of foreboding snarled through his body and he convulsed beneath the sudden shock of electricity through his brain. He would hide this away. He _would_ remember. He would _remember_. _He would remember_. He couldn't lose this. Not now.

Bits and pieces of the conversation between himself and Control melted away, but the Asset held tight to the feeling of fury and rage, of the knowledge that there was a child, someone important, waiting for him. Someone he needed to protect with everything he was.

When the electricity finally cut, the smell of burning flesh and hair permeated the room, and the Asset blinked gummy, watery eyes up at the ceiling. What had happened? There was something, something important niggling at the back of his mind. A child? Yes, a child. And fury. Anger. No, _rage_. The Asset hid this all beneath a placid look and his panting breath. He wasn't the greatest Asset Hydra had for nothing; he knew how to play people to get what he wanted.

If Hydra hadn't wanted him to use these skills against them, they shouldn't have taught him in the first place.

Idiots.

Control was standing in the doorway still, when the chair was tilted down so the Asset could sit up and the techs could begin his prep for cryofreeze. The Asset pointedly did not look towards Control, though the fire in his belly wanted nothing more than for him to jump from the seat and strangle the other man with his own intestines. But the Asset could be patient. The Asset was _always_ patient.

Control smiled smugly, dusting his hands as if congratulating himself on a job well done, and turned on his heel to leave. Internally, the Asset was snarling and growling and howling like a rabid dog. On the outside, he simply followed the techs' procedure, doing as he was told.

The year is 1975. The soldier remembers nothing. Or so they think.


	2. Chapter 2

**December 2014**

It had been months since Steve had caught more than a passing glance of Bucky Barnes. Sure, Hydra bases has started being blown off the map one by one, and not by them, but Bucky was always long gone before they got there. Even as Steve grumbled about it, he smiled fondly because Bucky always had been such a little shit like that. Always two steps ahead of them.

Though he hadn't seen Bucky face to face since the helicarrier crash, he had caught the rare sight of him on one or two security cameras before a building suspiciously went up in flames. It seemed that he wasn't trying to hide, because he brazenly walked right up to the front doors and barged them down without a second thought, a frighteningly dead look on his face every time.

As the months wore on and on, though, Steve noticed something. Instead of this all acting as some kind of catharsis and leaving Bucky calmer and happier, it seemed to be doing the opposite. He was getting more and more reckless, more vicious, more frightening and erratic with every base destroyed, and Steve just didn't know what to make of that. Was he not happy that Hydra was being destroyed, and he was the one doing it?

So, it didn't really surprise Steve when Bucky slipped up. The building had only just started vaguely rumbling when Steve arrived, shield in hand, to try and find some way to corner Bucky long enough to talk to him.

He was in a records room, flipping through files at an incredible speed, growling and snarling when he didn't find what he wanted. Steve stopped in the doorway, flinching when an even bigger boom echoed down the hall, before taking a step further into the room. Bucky glanced up, rolled his eyes, and then went back to his files.

"Hey, Buck. Doing okay?" He was trying to sound calm and nonchalant, but the increasing temperature and the continuing explosions kind of threw him off.

"Just fucking peachy," Bucky grumbled back, slamming a file cabinet closed before moving on to the computer. Long lines of green code flashed across the screen that Steve didn't even pretend to understand, but even that didn't seem to appease Bucky. Instead of just leaving it, he punched his left fist straight through the terminal, teeth bared in a nearly-feral growl. "It's not here! Why isn't it here?"

He desperately looked around the room again, lips in a tight line and hands crushed into tight fists.

"Buck? What are you looking for?" Steve asked, moving slowly closer to Bucky until he could place a hand on his shoulder. Bucky blinked quickly, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling, before swirling out of Steve's hold to pick up the cabinet and slam it into the wall. Files went flying and the metal cabinet boomed against the wall. Bucky didn't wait another moment, picking up the next and then the next and the next, slamming them around the room in a frenzy.

Steve didn't know what to do; Bucky never used to be this angry, unless he really got riled up and then he would just get in a tizzy for a few days. This was unbridled anger and helpless rage. This was frightening.

When one of Bucky's wild swings got a bit too close to Steve's head for comfort, Steve realized that that was enough. He practically tackled Bucky, wrapping an arm around his chest to keep his arms at his side, and had a terrible sense of déjà vu. This was all strangely reminiscent of their fight on the helicarrier. Bucky struggled for a few moments, before he stopped, thunking his head back on to Steve's shoulder. If they hadn't been chest to back, Steve wasn't sure he would have noticed Bucky's shaking, or the fact that he was crying.

"Bucky, calm down. Come on, deep breaths," Steve coached, squeezing Bucky slightly to get his attention. Bucky sucked in a shaky breath, before letting it all out in one long stream of slightly hysterical laughter. He shook with giggles, shaking his head and sobbing.

"Calm down?" he asked, suddenly stock still, sounding so frighteningly calm that it sent chills crawling down Steve's spine. "Calm down? How can I calm down?" As if to punctuate his point, something large and loud exploded just down the hall.

"Buck," Steve tried again, hoping he could get them both out of the building safely before it collapsed on top of them. Even through the thick fabric of his suit he could feel the wet spots on his arms from Bucky's tears. "Bucky. Oh, fuck. Bucky. Please, you don't have to be scared. Hydra won't ever touch you again, I promise."

That didn't seem to calm Bucky, though. Instead, he threw his head back and slammed right into Steve's nose. The bone audibly cracked and Steve released him automatically, hands flying up to his face as he watched Bucky scramble to his feet. His usual graceful movements were now jerky and sluggish. From his position looming over Steve, Bucky leaned forward and practically spit at him, "I'm not scared, Steve. I'm fucking pissed!"

Steve, wide-eyed and bleeding, shoved himself up far enough to sit up against the wall. "I can understand why you're angry…," he began, but Bucky slammed a hand up between them, stopping him then and there.

"Do you really think I'm that selfish? That I'm that naïve? I'm not angry because of what they did to me. I'm angry because I don't know where my son is!"

Before that could fully register in Steve's mind, Bucky turned on his heel and stormed from the room. As the ceiling shook over him, he heard Bucky holler back down the hallway. "If you don't want to wear this building on your head, I'd get out now, punk!" Steve rolled his eyes, even as he stood up and started sprinting from the building; good ol' Bucky, even now he was still looking out for Steve. He made it out just in time for the building to fall apart behind him. When he looked around, Bucky had vanished as well.

With the fire at his back and nothing in front of him, Bucky's words finally hit him fully.

Bucky had a son?

 **May 1981**

His mission was supposed to have been simple. His handlers had set him up in a nest, watched him fiddle with his rifle, and then had promptly been attacked by the target's personal guards.

Obviously, the mission had devolved from there.

Oh, the soldier wasn't _quite_ complaining. The hidden fire deep in his gut stoked by his hatred of Pierce was still there, simmering, until it found a suitable victim. The twelve man group of guards sated it, briefly. As he wiped his blade off on one of the men's jackets, the Asset turned back to his gun and sighted up the target, lining up the shot in a second before pulling the trigger and watching the target drop to the ground; her long, dark hair _almost_ covered the blossoming wound in her chest, but not quite.

Now that he was finished, he dropped the gun and turned to glare at his useless handlers, who were still trying to pick themselves up from the ground after the impromptu attack.

" _We are finished here_ ," he growled in Russian. It was a tic of his; when his handlers annoyed him, he spoke in Russian and watched them flounder around trying to figure out what the hell he was saying. It usually amused him, but today he just wanted to get back to base. He had a fractured rib that needed set and one of the guards had smashed a panel in his metal arm during the skirmish.

For once, he was actually looking forward to maintenance.

The ice that came after, well. That he was looking forward to _less_.

His handlers grumbled at him, leaving a few behind to dispose of the bodies, and the rest escorted the soldier back to base. His mission was done, and now all he wanted was his maintenance and his sleep. He was filthy, covered in blood and dirt, but he didn't much care. He didn't care that his hair was matted with drying blood, or that half his face had brain matter splattered across it, or that his ribs were throbbing along with the beat of his heart.

He just wanted his _damn_ maintenance and his _fucking_ sleep.

The handlers herded him through the base once they arrived, still grumbling about him and the shit storm the mission had become. Though the soldier was surprised to find Control at the doors waiting to greet them, he hid it well. The spike of anger and resentment he felt at seeing Control once more, he hid expertly. His surprise and confusion at the presence of a tiny, black haired boy standing beside Control, less so.

What was a child doing on a Hydra base?

The boy was fidgeting beside Control, staring up at the Asset with giant, grey eyes. Control seemed to be waiting for the Asset's reaction, but the Asset knew any reaction beside blankness would be dangerous. He stopped before the Secretary and awaited his orders as he mused over the possible outcomes of this situation. He really hoped Control hadn't brought the child for him to murder; he would do it, but he wouldn't like it.

Control gave him a quick, sharp smile and the Asset felt dread curdle through his stomach; that smile never boded well for anyone. He averted his eyes and stared down at Control's tie pin, waiting for his instructions. That tilt of the head, though, allowed for a better view of the boy at the edge of his vision. He was looking up at the Soldier with wide, curious eyes, just barely tinted with the beginnings of horror. It was only with that realization did the Asset remember that he was practically dripping with blood from the ambush, and inwardly flinched. He had probably scarred the poor kid for life.

Whoops.

"Mission report," Control stated, breaking the uncomfortable silence, "now." The Asset lifted his gaze to a spot somewhere over Control's left shoulder and debated his choice of wording. Due to the presence of the child, the Asset curbed the particulars of his report.

"Mission complete. Target eliminated." He kept it short and to the point, leaving the details for his handlers to fill in. No doubt they'd try to paint the ambush as his fault, and embellish their parts in the fight, but he was used to the mistreatment, even if he couldn't remember everything all the time.

"Good." Control glanced back down at the boy and tugged him forward, one too-large hand encompassing the child's entire upper back. "I believe it's high time you had a reward. This is Brock Rumlow. I thought you two could spend the day together." The Soldier stared back at Control, slight confusion twitching his eyebrows. Nevertheless, he accepted the new mission without fuss. He had no choice, and he had been given worse mission before.

"Yes, sir." He took the man's dismissal and followed a guard down to the showers to clean off. He attempted to clean himself more thoroughly than usual, not wanting to frighten the boy. There was just something about him. The Soldier couldn't point out what it was, exactly, but he felt familiar. The boy was only a little over five years old, silent, and wide-eyed, but he looked like someone the Asset couldn't quite remember.

As he was scrubbing the brain matter from his face, it hit him.

The boy had his nose. His eyes, too. His hair was spikey and short, but he's sure if he touched it without the gel in it, it would be silky and smooth, just like his own when it was cared for properly.

If he had not trained himself to curb his reactions, he might have actually collapsed to the floor in shock. Instead, he calmly replaced the bar of soap and turned off the water. He wouldn't waste another minute more, he had things to do. But no reason to look too over-eager.

He had no definite plan, but if this boy was his son, he wanted desperately to know he was safe. In the hands of Secretary Pierce was not the safest place he could be, the Asset knew.

The Soldier threw on his clothes, tugging the tac vest tight against the sting of his rib; what was a little crack in the face of getting to know his own child? He had soldiered through worse before. Clothing in place, the Soldier stomped down the hall and came to a halt when he found the boy waiting on a bench, legs swinging idly back and forth as he stared at the ground. The Soldier stopped right in front of the boy and waited, watching closely when he glanced up at the Soldier long enough to flash him a nervous little smile.

The Asset nearly choked on air.

That smile. If he hadn't thought it before, he knew for sure now. That smile was _his_ , when he was playing a part. When he had to assume the identity of a civilian, and he was lying through his teeth to get what his handlers wanted.

"Your name is Brock Rumlow," the Soldier stated, licking his lips because he didn't know what else to do. The boy's fake smile faltered, and his gaze flickered to the metal arm, before he looked back at his face and smiled again, this time something small and just a bit frightened but _real_.

"Yeah." His voice was small and soft, almost shy. The Soldier took a moment to think through a plan, before he hefted the boy to his feet and started marching him down the hall. The Soldier was lucky; he had been good so far this mission, so he was allowed more freedom throughout the base. He didn't want to talk to the boy in the hallway where the guards could easily eavesdrop; the gym would be louder and more public, but it would also allow them more privacy.

The guards followed a few steps behind them, silent shadows that the Soldier ignored. He shoved his way into the gym and bullied his way over to the empty sparring ring. He lifted the boy up to sit on the mat, bringing them up to equal footing.

The Asset was extremely cognizant of the guards standing a few feet away, watching their every move. Though they seemed to be staring at any and everything but the Soldier and the boy, the Asset was not stupid; he knew that they could hear them, and that every word would be sent back to Control. He had to be careful of what he said.

"Now, what are you doing here? Children are not meant to be here."

The boy swung his legs slowly, biting his lip. He looked just a bit frightened at that, his eyes flickering to the guards before he turned back to the Soldier. The Asset was quite proud, warmth spreading through his chest at the movement; the boy was intelligent enough to know to curb his responses due to the listening ears.

"My daddy works here. He said I could come with him today, but then he left me with Mr. Pierce, and he said I had to be good and do what I was told." His voice dropped, becoming almost too hard to hear in the busy gym, and he whispered guiltily into the Soldier's ear, "I don't really know what I'm supposed to do."

When the boy mentioned his father, the Soldier had the undeniable urge to destroy something. He wanted to shout that that man was a fraud, he was not his father, that the boy's real father was right in front of him. His chest hurt and he didn't know what to do about it.

He kept a straight face and breathed through the fire threatening to crawl up the back of his throat.

"Well, I'm sure we can find something to do," the Soldier tried to placate, patting him awkwardly on the shoulder. The warmth emanating from the boy was _shocking_ , so much so that the Soldier nearly allowed his brow to raise to reflect that shock. Did the boy have his serum, after all? He shivered at the thought, at the ramifications of that. What if he was being trained to be an Asset already? What if they were willing to hurt him to get him to do what they wanted, just like they did with him?

Shoving these thoughts so far away that they were nearly on the moon, he hopped up on to the mat with the boy and helped him stand, settling himself into a ready position. If they were training him to be a soldier, the Asset would make sure they found no fault in his form. He could do this for his boy, to keep him safe. The child gave him a bright grin and started copying him, moving along with the Soldier as he went through exercises.

After a while, the boy face scrunched up in thought and he asked, "What's your name, Mister? They never told me."

The Soldier's movements paused for a fraction of a second, and he cursed himself for the slight slip up. It was an innocent enough question, he supposed. He just didn't have an answer. "I do not have a name," he admitted, squinting off at the wall so the boy wouldn't see his confusion or anger or shame.

That seemed to liven the boy up. "That's not true! Everybody has a name. What do people call you?"

He thought about it, continuing to move his body through the simple exercises. "The Asset. The Soldier. The Winter Soldier, to be specific."

That didn't seem to appease the boy, though. He abruptly stopped in the middle of a movement and stomped over to stand in front of the Soldier. He tugged insistently on the man's hand until the Asset was kneeling in front of the child, eyeing him curiously. Brock's nose scrunched up in thought, even as he reached out and took one of the Soldier's fingers in his tiny hand. "Those aren't really names, though. They're _titles_ , like your _job_ ," he explained, as if the Soldier were a child. He seemed to stew in deep thought for a moment, before tugging the Asset's hand once more and squeezing tightly, his smile bright as sunshine. The Soldier was still staring at their linked hands, his breath hitching in his throat.

 _This was what he wanted._

He barely knew this child, but he was his. Brock Rumlow was his child, and all he wanted was to be able to do this forever. Hold his boy and protect him and care for him.

"How about 'Winter'?" the child chirped, looking up at him with a toothy smile, a _real_ smile, and the Soldier nearly melted right there on the mats. Noticing the guards watching them intently out of the corner of his eye, the Soldier curbed his reaction and simply nodded, short and quick. Though his face remained blank, he let his eyes shine with gratitude and happiness. He was almost afraid to smile back, not just because of the guards watching them, but because he was slightly frightened that his mouth might not remember _how_.

"Alright. Winter, it is." The newly christened man squeezed the boy's hand, _his son_ , and Brock beamed back, proud of being so helpful.

He released Winter's hand in favor of bouncing around the mat instead. "Do you think that's why they wanted us to meet? So I could help you find a name?" The boy sounded so earnest, and Winter couldn't bear to stomp on his reasoning by explaining that was most certainly _not_ why they had wanted them to meet.

"Perhaps, _zaichik_." He paused for a beat, then sat down on the mat across from the boy. Brock noticed right away and bounced right back, smiling wide. Biting his lip, Brock glanced up at Winter for a long moment before making his move. The child flopped down right next to him, easily manipulating Winter's metal arm to rest around his tiny shoulders. Feeling a slight sense of wonder, Winter squeezed the small shoulder experimentally, and nearly grinned when the boy let out a long, content sigh. He burrowed closer to the man, clinging tight to the straps on Winter's tac vest.

"What's that mean?" the boy asked quietly, rubbing at his eyes tiredly.

"It means 'bunny'. You were hopping about like one, I thought it was fitting. If you give me a name, I should have one for you. Yes?" Winter bit his lip and fidgeted; perhaps he had accidentally said something wrong. What if the boy didn't really want anything to do with him, and he was just trying to be good like his daddy had told him to?

"Bunny?!" the boy exploded, smile wide and blinding, and Winter berated himself for thinking something so stupid. The boy was barely five, he couldn't be that good of an actor yet. "I can be a bunny. Watch!" The boy hopped up and Winter watched on in shock. Had the child not just moments ago been close to sleep? Where had all this energy come from? Nevertheless, Winter gazed on as the child hopped around, crouching low and then propelling himself forward, hopping around just like a tiny little rabbit.

"Do I make a good bunny, Winter? A _zay_ -chick?" he wondered, horribly mispronouncing the Russian endearment.

Winter felt the skin around his eyes crinkle, though he was careful to keep his face tilted away from the guards, as he tried desperately not to smile.

"The best, _zaichik_." Then a thought hit him, and Winter reached out to tug the boy closer. "Child, would you like to learn Russian from me? And fighting? What about that?"

The boy's face looked nearly blissful. "Really?!" he shouted, and more than a few heads turned their way at the outburst. The other agents that had been using the gym had been keeping a healthy distance between themselves and the Soldier, but now they were openly staring at the interaction. Winter scowled in their general directions, moving his ice cold gaze around the room, meeting as many eyes as possible. He was silently daring any of them to say a word.

"Would you like that?" he repeated, turning back to Brock, where the boy was practically vibrating where he stood.

"Yes! Please? My momma says I'm real smart, and she says I need something to burn off all this energy I have, and I'll be good. I promise! Please?"

The Soldier nodded, his eyes flittering to half-mast. "I will ask the Secretary, when I see him next. Perhaps one of the agents can talk to him, if I do not see him before I leave."

Brock smiled so wide Winter was frightened he might pull something. The boy collapsed in front of him, a content little ball of goo, and Winter spent the next hour giving Brock his first introduction to the Russian language. The boy seemed to soak the attention and the knowledge up like a sponge, parroting back phrases and words nearly perfectly after a few repetitions.

When he saw the guards shuffling closer to them, Winter knew his time was nearly up. "You have done very well, _zaichik_. I will see what I can do about further lessons." Brock noticed the guards coming closer, too, and reached out quick and fast to wrap his arms around Winter's shoulders, squeezing tight.

"Thank you, Winter. I hope I see you again. You're real nice, even if you do look kinda scary sometimes." He pulled back and gave him one last smile, before he went up to one of the guards.

"Do I gotta go home now?" he asked, sounding whiney and petulant and Winter couldn't be more proud. His boy knew how to put up a façade, a mask! He was showing the guards that he wanted to go home, just so they wouldn't have the chance to force him.

"Yeah, kid. Your dad's waiting up in his office." The guard was gentle when he lifted the boy into his arms and started walking him out of the gym. Brock rested his head on the guard's shoulder and waved sadly back at Winter.

The Asset turned to the remaining guard and followed him out of the gym, down to the basement cell, and into the chair before he remembered the promise he had made.

"If you see Pierce," he said, taking a deep breath to steel himself, "ask him if I can give the kid lessons. Russian and fighting. He was asking. Kid's a fuckin' genius, if you ask me." He waited until the guard, some young punk that looked like he hadn't been out of the Academy more than a year or two, nodded before he submitted to his maintenance.

Huh. The maintenance and the sleep he had been so looking forward to not half a day earlier was now just an afterthought. What he really wanted now was his fucking son and a safe house they could disappear to.

As the chair tilted backwards, he went through the process of hiding his memories. He didn't need everything from this day, but the highlights would keep him up to date on his child. The way he smiled. The way his eyes lit up at the sound of his voice. The way he moved and the way he talked and the way he smiled and the way he looked and the way he…

Everything. God, he wanted to remember _everything_.

But he knew he couldn't, so he tucked away only what was important.

He would remember his bunny, his little _zaichik_. No matter what.

The electricity ramped up, and the metal wrapped around his head, and he screamed through the bit in his mouth. He screamed, took a breath, and then screamed some more. _He would remember_. He had to. His little _zaichik_ , his _zaic_ …

He blacked out.

The year was 1981. The Winter Soldier remembered nothing. But a tiny little rabbit…


	3. Chapter 3

**February 2015**

When Steve caught up to Bucky again he wasn't holed up in the records room like last time, but the laboratories. He was stuck in front of a freezer, staring at it like he was reliving some very terrible memories. Which he probably was, Steve realized after an embarrassing amount of time when he got closer and noticed that it was a cryochamber and not just any freezer.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Buck?" he asked carefully. "Gonna wreck this room, too?" he tried cheekily, coming to stand shoulder to shoulder with his friend. Bucky turned his head just enough to give Steve an incredulous look before sliding his gaze back to the tube.

"Might as well. This place will be rubble in about five minutes, anyway." His voice was dead and exhausted, and Steve felt it secondhand, reverberating through his own bones.

"Bucky. Last time, you said you have a son? Maybe I could help you find him." Anything to make Bucky stop looking so devastated every time he saw him.

Instead of making him smile, Bucky' nostrils flared and he turned on Steve, his eyes no longer dead but full of fire.

"No one else is going to touch him. I swear to God, Steve. You or any of your little idiots lay a fucking finger on him," he snarled, reaching out to fist a hand in Steve's uniform top, the threat clear behind his unfinished words.

Though he was surprised at Bucky's initial reaction, Steve was more insulted than anything, and glared right back. "Fuck, Bucky. He's your kid, of course I wouldn't hurt him. What the hell is going through that head of yours?"

Bucky seemed to bite back about twenty different responses before snarling out, "He grew up on Hydra's doctrine. What the hell do you think he grew up to be? You wouldn't allow him to live, even if he is my son. You'll kill him or throw him in jail and tell me it's all for my own good."

That was a little different, Steve had to admit. But anything that came from Bucky had to be salvageable, right? "He couldn't be that bad, could he?" Steve asked weakly, trying to grin and failing. Bucky released him and shook his head, giving the cryochamber one last dirty look before turning to leave.

"Buck! No, wait. Come on, it can't be that bad, could it?" He was really hoping that it wasn't that bad; that Bucky was just overreacting like the little drama queen he had always been before.

Bucky hesitated in the doorway, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot before looking over his shoulder, eyes so unbearably sad that Steve felt his heart clench up.

"Well, I suppose he's following in his father's footsteps," he admitted with a painful little smile on his face, eyes downcast and guilty. "Tried to kill you a few times, from what I heard." And without pausing to explain, he disappeared again, leaving Steve once more in a soon-to-be bombed out building.

He waited just a few moments, just long enough for Bucky to disappear if he wanted to. Then he moved toward the hall and out the main door. Just like he thought, Bucky was nowhere in sight. Steve moved to the tree line, well out of the line of the blast radius, and wracked his brain.

After all, a lot of people had tried to kill him recently.

 **March 1981**

When they dragged him out of the cryotube, they wasted no time in telling him that he had only been in there for two weeks. He grumped up at the handlers from the floor, glaring and snarling. What was even the point of throwing him in there, then? Coming out of cryo was always a bitch, and everyone that interacted with him on a regular basis knew it. It was painful, leaving him shivering and sore for hours afterwards, not to mention his thoughts were always scrambled for an hour or two after waking up.

Easy to say, the Winter Soldier was not a happy camper.

"I am not a happy camper," he growled out loud, his teeth chattering, leaving a few of the handlers staring at him with gaping mouths. The words left Winter confused as well. Where had he even heard that phrase?

The confusion did not look well on the handlers, so they attempted to smother it beneath contempt and surliness. Winter was at the advantage there, though; he may not remember much, but he knew he could out-surly anyone. It was a truth he could feel in his _bones_. He growled darkly at them when they attempted to prod him to his feet, and the morons stumbled back a few steps before trying again, only to get the same results.

Winter was in pain, and he was cold, and he would move when he was damn well good and ready to.

Idiots.

After his head stopped spinning and his body stopped shaking, he deigned to get to his feet and don the clothes that were waiting for him. The handlers watched him warily, probably waiting for him to growl and snap at them again, but he was feeling much better now.

He followed them out of the room and up a few flights of stairs. When they stopped outside of an office, Winter stared at the hallway with tight eyes. He wouldn't dare display his curiosity openly, but the slight tightening around his eyes was negligible enough to go unnoticed. Why was he positioned outside of Secretary Pierce's office?

The door opened and he peered inside. A little boy sat on one of the chairs, his legs swinging as he turned and smiled at Winter. The child raised a hand to wave and then turned back to Pierce sitting behind the desk. Winter took a step into the room when the handler behind him nudged him, but stopped right inside the door, listening as it closed behind them.

"Soldier. Glad you could finally join us." Though the words were said lightly, like a joke, Winter heard the hidden threat beneath. He winced internally, but on the outside he simply inclined his head, eyes flittering over to the boy once more before he took up a position behind the other empty chair.

That seemed to appease Pierce (Winter was nothing but a weapon, and weapons did not need things like _chairs_ ), and he leaned further back in his seat. As the silence stretched on, Winter stared at the back of the boy's head and felt things starting to loosen in his mind. He was careful to hide the sudden onslaught of emotion and memory from Pierce's sharp eyes, knowing it would be dangerous otherwise.

The boy was important. The boy was like a rabbit, a little bunny. He had his nose and his eyes and he was important. He had taught him fighting and Russian. That was most likely why he had been called today. Dragged out of cryo, biting and sniping, for his boy.

He almost regretted taking all that time to realign his body.

"Little Brock here has been asking for nearly two weeks now when he could see you again. You two must have really hit it off." Winter knew this game well; pretend to look confused, to have no clue what Pierce was talking about, but still look competent and docile. Anything else was dangerous. Winter felt his eyebrows twitch in a minute show of confusion, his lips stutter with the beginnings of a word, and his eyes cloud over with thought.

Pierce drank it all in, never realizing the deception behind the reactions, and smiled. "A few weeks ago, I had you two meet. You took it upon yourself to begin teaching him some exercises and some basic Russian. He took to it like a fish to water; his parents are very proud. And he has not stopped talking about you since. Winter-this, Winter-that. He's quite smitten." Pierce glanced over at Brock, who was beaming adoringly up at Winter and totally ignoring the Secretary. Pierce snorted, shaking his head in amusement, and then turned back to the Soldier. "I think we can spare you every now and then to teach Brock the things he would like to pick up. What do you say?"

There was no other answer. "Yes, sir." There was never any other option.

Not that he was complaining about this particular mission.

His child was bright, exceedingly so, and Winter couldn't help himself but wonder if all children were this smart, or if his boy had the super soldier serum running through his veins, as well.

If he did, his boy would need all the training he could get to protect himself. Winter had been around for a long time, seen a lot of things, and had squirreled away enough memories that Control didn't know about to piece together that the men he worked for were not kind, nor were they particularly good. But he had very little choice in the situation, and he wouldn't know what to do with himself without them, anyway.

But his boy, he didn't want his boy to be hurt by these unkind, not particularly good men. He was so small, and so sweet, and Winter hated that he would have to crush that beneath his heel like a monster. But if he didn't, then they would, and they wouldn't be gentle about it.

So, for their first lesson, Winter decided to start out with Russian. Less painful, he reasoned to himself. Brock was a natural at the language, but when he stumbled over a word or pronunciation, Winter would reach out with his metal hand and slap the back of the little boy's head.

The giant, betrayed eyes the boy had leveled at him after the first swat had nearly made Winter rethink his plan, but he hardened his resolve. This was something he could do for his boy. He would be far gentler than a handler; he would just swat the boy's head, a handler would beat him bloody.

He felt he had to explain himself just a little, if only to chase those giant hurt eyes away. So he leaned forward, his mouth right at the boy's ear, and whispered as quietly as he could, barely moving his lips. "This is a kindness, child. If I teach you, it will be but a tap. If you are given to a handler, it will be blood and broken bones. Do you understand?"

When he pulled away, the boy's face was slack-jawed and slightly frightened. Winter didn't think he fully understood what he was trying to tell him, but he nevertheless nodded along, watching Winter's metal hand warily.

"It will not always be like this," he promised, wanting to give the child something to look forward to. "Just while you are learning. When you master them and train against me, then we will have fun." And they would. He prayed they would get to that point before too long, so he wouldn't have to hurt his child more than he could handle.

Brock took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then turned his stony face to Winter once more.

"Next?" he asked in Russian, and Winter had to crush down the twitch of a proud smile on his lips. That was punishable; he was supposed to be teaching, he didn't want time taken away to be punished.

"Next," he responded, nodding his head sagely, and continued on with the lesson like nothing had happened.

The combat lessons were quite different. Now, to correct something it was painful, more than a slight slap to the back of the head. A mistake here could end up with nasty bruises, broken bones, and concussions. Though he didn't want to inflict that on his son, in order to learn it was inevitable.

He walked Brock through the warm ups, through the stretches and the breathing, and then helped him with form. He was tiny and barely in full control of his body at this age, but Winter could not be seen treating him favorably. They had intelligence about the time he had trained young girls many years earlier, for some program in Russia, he couldn't quite remember. But he remembered that he had been downright brutal to them, and some had been even younger than Brock was now. Order came through pain, or whatever nonsense Hydra was spouting nowadays.

So while he was tough and harsh, he was not brutal to his boy. As he finished up for the day, Winter led him through some cool-down exercises and then hopped off of the mat, placing a restraining hand on the boy. He stopped at the edge of the mat, eyes wary but calm, like he knew something else was coming but was willing to take it.

"You did very well today, _zaichik_ ," he whispered, running a finger over the boy's red cheek, and then cupped his other cheek with his cool metal hand. The boy's shoulders sagged in relief and his eyes fluttered shut, breath escaping in a happy sigh. "I'm proud of you."

A tiny, secret smile passed between them, and then Winter was all business once more. He couldn't be seen to have a preference, to be soft, to have a weakness. The boy had to remain a student in the eyes of Hydra, or else he would be in danger before Winter trained him up fully so he could protect himself. Until then, he was just another boy to the Asset, but to Winter he would be the secret he took to his grave, the one thing he kept hidden and protected above everything else.

Today was good. Today was finished. He would remember.

Weeks passed in the same routine, training the boy up, teaching him Russian and basic fighting. He was too young to learn much of anything too sophisticated, but he showed amazing promise. Through every lesson, when they were close and pressed together, Winter would whisper advice to his little bunny.

As he held the boy in headlock, he whispered into his ear. "Don't ever show everything you can do. If they know everything, they will find a way to use it against you."

The next day, while they were wrestling on the floor, Winter grumbled through ground teeth. "Never have a weakness, and if you do, hide it with everything you have. Don't let them see you in pain, don't let them see you happy, don't let them know that you feel. You are a rock, a stone. _You cannot harm a stone_."

And on and on for months until the five year old was a six year old was a seven year old. He was progressing beautifully, Control stated one day while he sat in on their sessions, wondering if the Soldier needed to go back into the ice and cold and sleep for a few months at least. His final decision was a wipe and sleep for a few years, and then bring him back when the boy was a bit older, ready for more.

This sent Winter into a silent panic. His eyes widened ever so slightly. His breathing hitched. His heartrate spiked. No one suspected anything, of course, but it was still there. He calmed his initial reaction and then stared back at Control and nodded.

He wouldn't see his boy for three years, at least.

A lot could happen in three years.

So during their final lesson, Winter knocked the boy to the ground and threw himself on top, using the pretence of a fight. It was really just an excuse to get his mouth near his son's ear. He had to warn him of what was to come.

None of the guards around them spoke Russian, so Winter barked something soft and angry at him, like he was berating him, but his words were anything but.

"Brave. Calm. Safe. Like a stone, yes?" Brock stared back at him, eyes widening ever so slightly, just like Winter's did when he was surprised, but he recovered quickly and nodded. Winter cuffed the boy on the head, making it look hard, but really it was the gentlest he had touched the boy in months. He hoped what he really wanted to say was conveyed through the softer touch. _"I love you, I want you to be safe. They won't be gentle, they won't care for you beyond what you can do for them, so be the best."_ He felt his eyes burning uncomfortably and quickly turned away. He didn't want to see his boy, standing quietly and solemnly and seven years old, as he turned to ice. It was painful but it was real and he clung to it even as they strapped him in to his chair and started up the electricity that would try to take away the last three years of his life. As the machine booted up, he closed his eyes and tried to order his mind. What to keep and what to let fall through his fingers like sand?

In the end, it was pretty easy to decide what to remember.

His boy smiling. The impromptu birthday party for his boy that one of the other agents had thrown together and brought the Asset to. His boy laughing. His boy flat out on his back, breathing hard, but the bright glint of stubbornness shining through even as his tiny, sharp teeth ripped into Winter's hand, releasing him. The boy's impeccable Russian, how fluidly he spoke and wrote, how they went days speaking nothing but the language of the Motherland. Days that reminded him of his time with the tiny murderous girls; days that reminded him of anything but those days. Days where he was harsh and days where he was gentle but every day he showed the boy that he loved him, that if he had the choice he wouldn't have to do this.

These were the things he held on to, grip white and choking, until the electricity was finished wiping his mind, and even as he was being prepped for the freezing cold, he ran imaginary fingers over his memories lovingly. He would remember; of course he would.

The year is 1984. His boy is safe. For the time being.


	4. Chapter 4

**April 2015**

When Steve saw Bucky again, he wasn't even actively looking for him. He had been on the subway, wandering D.C., waiting for Sam or Natasha to call him back when he had seen Bucky heading through the heavy foot traffic during rush hour. He had almost missed him; Bucky had cleaned himself up. He had shaved and showered, looked like he had found a good meal or two somewhere, and had his hair hidden beneath a baseball cap. He didn't look like a hobo anymore, at least.

The man was on a mission, and it was obvious in the way he stalked through the crowds and the way people parted to let him pass. His face had to be truly frightening. Bucky must not have noticed him following either, because Steve was able to follow him all the way to the end of the street, where he stopped beside a stoplight. He was staring up at the large brick hospital across the street with wide eyes, mouth set in a determined line.

Steve came to a stop beside him, hands in his pockets. They stood there together, staring up at the bustling hospital in comfortable silence for a few long moments while Steve thought. He wracked his brain, trying to remember if there was anything important about this hospital. He knew there were some Hydra agents in intensive care, too injured to be moved anywhere with more security. Was Bucky there to interrogate them? Or to finish the job?

After they had stood there for a good fifteen minutes and were starting to get some odd looks from people passing by, Bucky finally spoke. "I found him, Steve. I finally found him."

He sounded so happy, and Steve had to remind himself that Bucky had every right to want his son with him. Even if that son was Hydra scum. When Steve turned to congratulate his friend, he realized that Bucky had tears streaming down his cheeks. He was _crying_ at the discovery of his son's whereabouts, and Steve felt like a dick for thinking of his son as 'Hydra scum' just a few seconds earlier. Bucky reached up to wipe his face off, giving Steve a small smile when he saw him staring. Then he turned and started scoping out the surrounding buildings. When he found one he liked, he took off in that direction, moving slow enough for Steve to keep up.

And of course, Steve tagged right along, a step behind. "You mind if I came with, Buck? I'd like to meet my nephew, if it's alright with you."

Bucky snorted and shook his head, but when he glanced back at Steve over his shoulder he was smirking. "Fine, punk. But you better not give him any grief. The kid's been through too much shit to put up with yours on top of it all. He's in that hospital in the _intensive care unit_ for a reason."

That sobered Steve right up. "Of course, Buck. It'll be fine, promise."

Bucky rolled his eyes as they walked up the stairs of the building. He paused on the third floor, finding an empty apartment they could use for a few hours. Steve glanced out the window while Bucky checked to make sure no one was hiding in the apartment and saw that they were practically level with the third floor of the hospital. If he squinted, he could just make out nurses and doctors walking past the windows, but he didn't see any patients. They must either be bed-ridden or sleeping, he assumed as he turned back to look at Bucky.

Bucky had seemed to settle down in to Winter Soldier mode, his face blank and his eyes intensely focused as he settled down in a kneeling position in front of the open window, pulling a scope from sniper rifle out of his pocket to check out the hospital.

Steve settled on the floor behind him. "Waiting until nightfall?" he asked quietly, just to be sure. Bucky moved just enough to tilt his head up and down once before taking up his vigil once more.

They sat there in silence for about five hours before it started getting dark outside. Once it was late enough for visiting hours to be over and most of the staff to be half-asleep, Bucky stood and towed Steve back down to the street. They made their way in through a service entrance and Bucky moved them stealthily through the hospital, waiting for the halls to empty out before they sprinted down them. As they moved deeper and deeper into the building, Steve a few feet behind Bucky, the Soldier took their mission into his own hands. He took down three SHIELD guards before Steve could say a single word. He just gave Bucky a stern look before they continued down the hall, feet silent on the tile floors.

Finally, Bucky stopped them outside of an unmarked door. He looked frozen, slightly dazed, and slowly slipping out of the Winter Soldier mindset. His eyes were wide and wet, his mouth slightly agape, and his body was at once stiff and shaking in anticipation.

"Go on, Bucky. It'll be okay."

Bucky blinked, took a deep breath, and nodded to himself. With a shaking hand, he pushed the door open, Steve following right behind him.

Steve's eyebrows raised when he recognized the figure in the bed.

Well. He had not been expecting _that_.

 **September 1988**

Winter had been allowed to see his boy very briefly. He was eleven, now, and just starting his growth spurt. His hair was spiked up with gel, making him look like a little troublemaker. His face was more angular, having lost a lot of the baby fat. His smile was still the sweetest thing about him.

They had trained together for a few short days before Winter had been taken away to prep for a mission.

Everything had been fine.

And then something horrible had happened.

Winter had done something bad. He hadn't meant to, but the target had knocked something loose in his mind, and he had become erratic. The woman had been nothing much to look at; she had been short and slim, with short cropped blonde hair and big blue eyes. She had been coughing horribly in the street. Winter had been stationed in a building down the street, sniper rifle in hand and at the ready. When she had doubled over coughing, her blond hair flopping forward into her eyes, Winter had jolted forward, shooting too soon as his arm jerked with his body and the trigger had been pulled before he knew what was happening. He had seen the woman fall to the ground in a heap, her blood stained handkerchief clutched in one outstretched hand.

His handlers had been so mad. They had screamed and shouted and smacked at him as they ushered him out to the van. He had been strapped in to his restraints and then the handlers had told him that the boy would be getting it when they returned. The image of his boy, all wide eyes and sharp teeth and too sweet smile appeared in his mind and he felt sick to his stomach. What had he done?

His heart started pounding double-time and Winter couldn't calm himself down. His brain was already hurting, trying to figure out why the mission had hit him so hard, and now he had to try and think about ways to get his boy out of this.

When they pulled up to the base, he was yanked out of the van and marched up to an observation room. As he watched the handler leave, he felt confusion clawing at his throat. Then he turned and saw his boy on the other side of the glass, hands tied to the table and looking frightened, though he was valiantly trying to hide it.

His eyes were taking up far too much room on his face, even as he tried to school the rest of his expression into anger. Winter loved that about him; while Winter used neutrality as his mask, Brock had chosen to use anger to hide what he was really feeling. Brock glanced around the room with fear in his stormy eyes, and Winter nearly sighed. Though he had tried to teach Brock exactly how to hide his feelings, Brock still had trouble hiding the feeling in his eyes. They were just so _expressive_.

 _Brock_ , he wanted to call out, his memories of the boy pelting him with guilt and anger over what was going to come next. The unspoken rule of the base had been that the boy would be treated well as long as the Asset was working correctly. Now he had misfired and the boy would have to pay for his mistake.

 _No, no, no_ , he wanted to say. Instead, it just repeated on a loop in his mind, over and over. He didn't want to give anything away, but his arm seemed to move on its own volition, reaching up to touch the glass separating them. He had missed _years_ with his boy because of the ice, and now he was going to be hurt because of something Winter had done, and he felt like he might just die. He had to _watch_.

Gone were the soft, joyful eyes that Winter had traded heavy looks with just the day before. Now, Brock was glaring around the room, grumbling to himself, trying to tug out of the handcuffs. Winter knew in his gut that Brock knew what was coming, and he didn't like it any more than Winter did.

After a few tense minutes, the door opened and Brock was instantly spitting insults and threats at the agent. Winter was slightly shocked and impressed at the fire in his boy. The last time he had spent a long amount of time with him, he had been a sweet, shy, adorable little boy. Now he seemed to have activated his sarcastic gene, fire brewing in his belly.

 _Just like Becca_ , his mind supplied quietly. He had no fucking clue who Becca was, but the undeniable truth of it resonated deep in his bones, so he accepted it. He waited, and he watched. Tears prickled at the back of his eyes but he refused to let them fall. This was his fault and he needed to see every minute of it. _This was his fault_.

As the large, intimidating agent got closer and closer to his boy, his pride slowly died, replaced by fear and panic. The man didn't say a work, just reached forward and gripped Brock's hair tight in his meaty fist. Without warning, he threw Brock's head forward into the tabletop, slamming his face up and down a few times until he passed out from the pain.

With Brock out cold on the metal table, the agent who had done the deed turned to the two way glass and glared. "You screw up again, it will last longer next time." Then he turned and stormed out the door. Winter was left in the observation room for hours, watching as Brock lay unconscious; as he finally opened his eyes groggily, wincing at the pain; as Brock glared at the door until someone came for him. Winter watched his boy flinch when a new agent set a hand on his shoulder, then shrugged off the touch viciously, a scowl on his tiny, young face. He noticed the bruises were already disappearing.

Winter wanted to whimper; he could feel it in his throat, begging to be let out. But he couldn't. He didn't know if the room was bugged (probably) or if someone was watching him (also, probably). It was too dangerous to show how he was really feeling. They were already using Brock against him, and they only thought he remember him from his lessons. They didn't know he remembered that the boy was his son, and if they ever found out he knew, Brock would be in even more danger than he was already as the Winter Soldier's student.

He had tried to warn the boy, all those years ago. It seemed that Brock had remembered, though. He had seemed prepared, at any rate.

Winter stared at his reflection in the two way mirror; where had his happy little boy disappeared to? Was he still there, underneath all that sass and biting temper? Was he just fronting for the scaring agents surrounding him, or was this what he had become in the four years Winter hadn't been there to protect him?

He heard the door open, and then Pierce was standing behind him. Winter stared at the Secretary's reflection in the mirror, easier than facing him head on. "We've all noticed how much you favor the boy, Soldier. It seems that poor little Brock had to pay the price for your mistake, this time. Let's not let that happen again," he proposed, leaning forward on his toes, face right next to Winter's now. "Children are so _breakable_ , after all."

Winter wanted to cry. He wanted to scream, or rage, or maybe rip Pierce's tongue out of his mouth. He really wanted to raze the building to the ground with everyone but his boy inside.

He had screwed up and hurt his boy. Never again, he vowed to himself, face hard as stone as he met Pierce's eyes in the mirror. Never again.

"It's time to go to sleep, Soldier." Winter let out an even breath, trying to curb his anger and fear. Pierce wouldn't even let him see if the boy was alright? But he didn't fight back as Pierce took him by the shoulder and steered him out of the room, down the hall until he was transferred over to the care of his handlers. The same handlers that were still furious with him about the botched hit. _Wonderful_ , he thought sarcastically, internally pulling a face at the Commander. He felt disgusting and defeated, and might just welcome the chill of cryofreeze. Just this once.

The handlers kicked him down the hall. He sat in the chair without prompting. He could forget all of this. He almost welcomed it.

The chair, the ice, and then nothing.

But he had to remember. He had to remember what they would do if he ever screwed up again. He had to _remember this_.

It is 1988. Winter remembers nothing but the pain that remained as a frozen knot in his chest. Tears crystalized on his cheeks. He has done something bad.


	5. Chapter 5

**April 2015**

The first thing Brock noticed as he started coming out of the haze of drugs was that his body had to be on fire. There was no other explanation to the amount of pain he was in. He allowed himself one gratifying full-body flinch before he settled back against the hard mattress to figure out what exactly was wrong with him. With his eyes firmly closed, he slowly tensed and relaxed his muscles, starting at his head and moving down to his toes, just like Winter had shown him all those years ago.

It was _agony_. What had he done? Fistfight a goddamn _bear_? There wasn't an inch of skin that wasn't itching or burning or pulsing painfully.

And _then_ he remembered the fight with the man that had jumped out of the window while the building had come crashing down around him. Just the thought of all that debris and dust and fire surrounding him had him jerking up in shock, eyes wide and breath fast. So, _not_ a fistfight with a bear, then. Just something about a _million times worse_.

Brock wasn't expecting to find Winter standing in the corner of his room, watching him warily in the dark. _Totally_ unexpected. He wasn't complaining, though. He reveled in the little swoop of calm that settled in his gut and enjoyed the feeling, giving the soldier a little calm smile. The Soldier's mother-henning when it came to him always left him feeling all warm and fuzzy inside. However, in his rush of relief, he hadn't noticed the other form in the room; Captain Rogers leaned by the window, hidden in the shadow. Brock sighed, relaxing back into the bed, focused solely on Winter's progress across the room.

"Winter, what's going on?" he asked, his voice rasping and painful. He tried to sit up, but then he noticed the handcuff binding him to the hospital bed and winced at the pull on his skin. "Please tell me you have the key to that." He rattled the metal against the bar of the bed and tried once more to sit up, only to fall back against the pillows weakly, nearly blacking out in pain. Winter was at his side in a moment, flesh hand reaching out to stroke his hair and metal hand touching Brock's restrained hand gently.

" _Zaichik_ , you must _breathe_ ," he ordered, tugging lightly at his hair to bring him out of his mind. Brock winced but obediently looked up at Winter through his lashes. He had known Winter for years and years, but the look in his mentor's eyes was dark and frightening.

For one excruciating moment, Brock wondered if the Soldier had been sent to kill him. He really hoped not, not after all these years.

Brock took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then turned his gaze back to focus on Winter once more. The Soldier stared back, eyes tight in the way they got when he was trying to reign in his emotions. That worried Rumlow more than anything else.

"Winter?" he asked, his breath catching in his throat. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

"I have the key," Winter replied, revealing a small silver key from his pocket. He made no move to release him, though. Winter hesitated before pushing on, his eyes dark and worried. "I will let you go, but there are some things I need to tell you. I need you to be good for me, little one. Will you be good for me? Let me explain?"

Brock blinked quickly, trying to push down the panic attempting to claw up his throat. Winter's eyes softened ever so slightly, showing his care in a way Brock could read it, which led Brock to relax ever so slightly.

"Of course I'll be good. I'm always good," he replied cockily, the joke falling flat in the heavy atmosphere. Winter was almost always stoic but he was being especially frightening tonight. With gentle, caring fingers, Winter reached down to undo the handcuff. It was only when Brock followed Winter's movement down to his wrist that he saw first-hand just why he was in so much pain: his skin was covered in deep, ugly burns.

"Is that from the building collapse? Fuck!" he groaned shakily, staring at the unhealthy red and pink and white lines covering his body. No wonder he felt like utter shit. " _Winter_!"

"Calm, _zaichik_. Remember? You're going to be good, and I'm going to tell you what's going on. Breathe, child." Brock looked shaken and frightened as he stared down at his burnt up body, but he nodded anyway, reaching out to take Winter's hand.

"What's going on, then? Look, I'm being good. So good, just, _please_ , Winter." He knew he was whining by the end, but he just wanted to know what the hell had happened between the building exploding on him and now. If he wanted to hold Winter's hand for a little bit of comfort, well, none of the higher ups were there to scream at them about it, now were they?

Winter squeezed the hand wrapped around his own, remembering how small it had been that first day they had met. He shivered, turning to stare out the window for a long moment before he turned back to Brock, a tiny smile tugging his lips up. He hadn't had much cause to smile in a very long time, so he was taking the opportunities as they came.

"Brock, there is something about our relationship that I have never told you before. I was only told once, and I buried it deep so they could never burn it out of me."

Brock looked surprised, but he already knew that for whatever reason Winter had always remembered him. Maybe not every little detail, but he remembered the important things. As he had grown older, he had realized that that was a fault in his programming, but Winter had sworn him never to tell. Because it had been _important_. _He_ had been _important_.

"You always remembered me," Brock whispered out, tugging Winter closer. "Why would you always want to remember _me_?"

Winter took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let it out. "Because you're my son."

For a long time, Brock just stared at Winter in shock and disbelief. His first reaction was bone deep anger: Winter had known all this time and never _told_ him, never _taken him away_ , never _saved him_ from this life? But even as he raged in his own mind, the rational part of himself took over, and he admitted that that had never been an option. It still hurt, though.

"What?" he finally choked out, feeling traitorous tears pricking his eyes. He hadn't cried in _years_ , what the hell was _this_? "What?!"

"Calm, _zaichik_. You promised to let me explain," Winter reminded him softly, running his free hand through Brock's short hair. Brock calmed down, but he didn't _want_ to. His heart was pounding in his chest, his skin was burning, and he just wanted to pass out for a while. Maybe things wouldn't be so fucked up when he woke up the second time. Maybe this was all a weird dream.

With wide eyes, Brock nodded, looking up at Winter to continue. "I remembered you, no matter what, and I protected you as much as I could. When we met, when you were five, I realized right away who you were. My nose," he said, brushing a finger against Brock's crooked nose, "my eyes," a finger beneath his wide, shining eyes. "You were perfect, and I knew they would use that against you. So I taught you the rules, gave you the skills to protect yourself, gave you someone to depend on no matter what. I did all I could for you, and you have done so well." He squeezed Brock's hand again and leaned forward to press their foreheads together. "But things have changed now. You were brought up on Hydra's doctrine and nothing else. This isn't your fault, child." Brock's eyes fluttered closed at that, having a hard time believing the words coming out of Winter's mouth. "We're out now, _zaichik_. We have allies on the right side and they want to help us." That seemed to do the opposite of what Winter had been hoping. Brock's eyes went wide and his breathing panicked and erratic as he struggled against Winter's hold.

"Are you an _idiot_?" he hissed, trying to sit up. He writhed in pain, the slightest movement setting off a chain reaction of fire. "We can't trust anyone! They'll kill us as soon as listen! We were _Hydra_."

Winter's eyes were wide and frightened now, but he took a deep breath and slapped Brock hard across the face. Brock cringed, breath coming fast and thin, but he stopped moving. He looked practically frozen still as his wide, frightened eyes locked on to Winter's face.

"I have never lied to you!" Winter hissed back, bringing their faces together so they were inches apart. He reached out to grab a handful of Brock's hair, pulling him even closer still. It looked painful, but Brock moved with the motion, following Winter's hand until they were nose to nose. "Never, in all these years. Child, you know I wouldn't lie about this. Not now. We have allies. We will be protected. _Da_?"

That tiny little bit of Russian seemed to be Brock's breaking point. He choked out a long string of Russian that had Winter's full attention. To the room's surprise, Brock started crying, _sobbing_ , and Winter was leaning forward again, wrapping his body around Brock's, whispering Russian right back to him.

After a long time, Brock finally stopped crying long enough to pull himself together and practically collapsed onto Winter. "Are you sure? _Really_ sure?" he asked. He still sounded shaky.

"I'm incredibly sure, little one." He brushed his knuckles against Brock's cheek and then stepped away. He looked up to where Steve was still standing by the window indecisively, and waved him closer. Brock followed his eye line in confusion, but when he saw who was standing there he swallowed thickly, his face paling dramatically.

" _Fuck_ , Winter. What did you _do_?" he breathed, trying to push himself up into a more defensible position but failing, instead flailing back onto Winter's chest again, his eyes never leaving Steve's blank face. Winter just wrapped an arm around Brock's shoulders and whispered into his ear, soft Russian that slowly had him relaxing until he was only vaguely cringing away from Steve.

The Captain, for his part, looked really, terribly shocked at this series of events. "Okay, well. _That_ was weird." Brock's frightened face turned into a glare, which he then turned to throw in Winter's face instead.

Winter just shrugged, rolling his eyes at the both of them. He shook Brock's shoulders lightly, a tiny grin on his face as he said, "Brock, say hello to your Uncle Steve." He nearly downright cackled at the disgusted look on Brock's face in response to that, but Steve's might have even been worse. Winter was shaking on the inside with laughter, but on the outside he merely allowed a tiny smirk.

Brock grumbled something under his breath, then turned to Winter with a scowl. "You know we tried to kill each other, right?"

But Winter just shrugged. "So did I. Multiple times. He's the one that broke down my programming enough that I could break free in the first place." Though Winter was still smirking, the words sent a sick feeling through Brock's stomach and his face crumpled.

Steve Rogers had broken through the Winter Soldier's programming, _setting him free,_ in less than three days.

Brock had only mattered enough to be remembered. But his memory hadn't been strong enough to save Winter in all the years they had been together.

He didn't like to admit it, but it stung something fierce.

Winter looked confused, glancing between Brock and Steve. " _Zaichik_? What's wrong?" He tried to reach out and brush a hand against Brock's cheek again, but Brock jerked away, wide eyed and distant.

"I'm fine," he said dully, throwing a dirty glare in Steve's direction. "He broke you free, then? Well done, Rogers. Thanks, I guess." His shoulders slumped and he fell back against the pillows, looking drawn and exhausted.

And then it dawned on Winter just what was bothering him. With a small smile, Winter slid off the bed to kneel down beside it, taking Brock's hands in his own. Slipping into Russian for privacy, he explained just what had triggered the collapse of his programming.

"I'm a lot older than I look, child. I've been around since 1917, actually." He tilted his shoulder in Steve's direction and smiled as wide as he could manage. "I grew up with this punk, went to war with him. Fell off a train and into Hydra's hands. Figure out who I am, yet? Or was, I guess."

Brock's eyes were wide in disbelief. Sure, he had been taught American history, but most of it had been dry textbooks with no pictures. He had never connected his Winter with Bucky Barnes before today. He glanced between Steve and Winter before slumping forward, a dopey look on his face as he laughed.

"Bucky goddamned Barnes. Really?"

Winter smiled, squeezing Brock's hand before standing back up, stretching happily. "We're safe. We have allies. Do you believe me now?"

Brock stared down at his lap, still shaking his head with a little disbelieving grin on his face, but nodded all the same. "Yeah, I believe you, Winter. Now what?"

Steve started to open his mouth, but before he could, there was a knock on the door. Everyone turned to stare at it, eyes wide and the two super soldiers raised their hands up, ready for a fight.

 **October 1994**

Winter had been good, and he knew he was due for a reward soon. When he had woken from the freeze with red eyes and the grit of tears on his cheeks, he knew he had done something bad to be left in that condition. He had been _bad_ , so when he woke up with a sick feeling in his gut and tightness in his chest, he had decided to be _perfect_ this time.

And he had done very, very well. His handlers had even said so. The had praised his shot, the quickness with which he had cleaned up and met them back at the van, and even the way he had been silent and accommodating throughout the whole mission.

He had secretly hoped that if he had been good, he might be allowed a reward. He couldn't quite recall what rewards had been given in the past, or when, but he knew he enjoyed them and that he wanted them again.

He had been _good_. So good.

When Pierce had met them in the hallway outside of his office after the mission, he almost hadn't been able to hold back the hopeful look in his eyes. _Please, please, please. Let me, please_ , his mind repeated, though he would never dare speak the words aloud.

Pierce must have seen something in his face because he smirked smugly before turning and proceeding to ignore the Asset in favor of his handlers. "Mission report," he stated, and the handlers answered all of his questions, practically praising the Asset's every move since he had woken up. He hadn't even bitten any of them, this time!

Control's grin had widened, until he finally turned back to Winter with a victorious look shining sickly in his eyes. "Well, this is cause for a reward if I ever saw one." His laugh sounded suspiciously like a cackle when he saw how Winter's eyes widened hopefully. Pierce nodded toward one of the handlers offhandedly, already walking away. "Take him to see the boy. Give them two hours. Then I want them to start training again." Then Pierce was gone and Winter was being whisked away to another part of the building.

They took an elevator down to the barracks, where the handler escorting him, one of the younger ones, smiled at Winter before opening one of the doors for him. Winter took a few tentative steps in to the room before he heard the door clicking shut behind him. Not quite sure where he was, Winter looked around for clues. It seemed he was in someone's quarters. There was a small bed, a near-empty bookcase, and a television perched precariously on top of it. There wasn't much room for anything else. He was alone in the small space, but he assumed not for long. Sure enough, about twenty minutes later the door was kicked open by a tall, grumbling boy with spikey hair. He was maybe fifteen or sixteen, but the scowl on his face made him look years older.

He noticed someone was there immediately, practically roaring in outrage when their eyes locked across the room. "What the hell are you doing in here? Who are you?" He lunged forward and slammed Winter into the wall with a moment of hesitation, his eyes full of anger and just a hint of fear.

Winter was finding it hard to do anything but stare. His breath continued to catch in his chest as he stared into stormy grey eyes so similar to his own. He had to blink quickly to keep the tears from the pain of uncovered memories from running down his cheeks. It wouldn't do for the Asset to be seen _emoting_. But it was so _painful_ ; what had they done to his sweet little boy? Even at the age of eleven he had not been this hostile.

"Well? Who are you? No one's supposed to be in here." The boy shoved at him again, but then seemed to realize his mistake. Winter couldn't really be expected to answer him if Brock continued to cut off his airway, so the boy loosened his grip and let Winter's feet graze the floor again.

"You don't remember me?" Winter wheezed quietly, feeling the bottom drop out of his stomach. Had it really been such a long time that Brock couldn't recognize him? Or had they tampered with his memory, just like they did with the Soldier's? The very thought had Winter's blood boiling. If they had hurt his boy…

But then there was a flash of recognition in Brock's eyes as he peered closer. The anger in his eyes slowly dissipated until they were clear and rational again. A shy, remorseful smile flittered across his young face as he released Winter all the way, letting his feet slip down flat on the floor.

" _Winter_!" he breathed out excitedly. "You're _back_!"

Winter gave Brock the tiniest upturn of his lips in return. One of his hands moved up to rest on Brock's shoulder, where he squeezed carefully, taking in his boy more closely now that he wasn't dangling on the wall. The poor boy looked exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes and his skin far too pale to be healthy. His body was starting to pack on the muscles, though it was obvious that he was still growing into his longer limbs. He looked a little thin and had more injuries than Winter would have liked to have seen.

With his inspection of Brock concluded, he turned his attention to the room. "Do you live here, child?" he asked, hearing the barest hint of shock in his own voice. He knew Brock had heard it, too, when the boy flinched uncomfortably, looking around the room with a sour look on his face. Winter followed his gaze and frowned; the room looked lived in, but it didn't look like the room of a teenaged boy. What was a teenager doing in a Hydra base to begin with?

 _The same thing a five year old was doing in a Hydra base_ , his mind supplied, and Winter had to fight back the shiver that tried desperately to crawl up his spine at the thought.

"Yeah. Well, uh, my parents kicked me out. My dad's boss, Mr. Pierce. Well, he came to see me and offered me a spot here. I'm still a little young to work here legally, but they put me in a tutoring program and let me train with the older agents. I didn't really like the idea of working for the same joint my dad does, but it hasn't been so bad, so far. And I gotta live, y'know?" He shrugged casually, like none of it mattered to him, but Winter could see the hurt lingering in his young eyes.

"I'm sorry, child." He reached out again to wrap an arm around Brock's shoulders, just like he had all those years ago when they had first met, and tried his hardest to smile for Brock. The boy reached out tentatively, gripping on to one of the straps on his tac vest, and folded himself up against Winter's side. Some things never changed, he supposed fondly. "You're a good kid. I think Pierce might want us to work together again. He said something about restarting the training regime."

Brock's eyes lit up with excitement, and Winter could feel him squirming happily beneath his arm. "Really? It'll be just like when I was younger. Man, Winter. It's been too long. Where do you go when you're not here, anyway?" Brock's arms had migrated to wrap around Winter's waist, his head pressed comfortably beneath Winter's chin. Winter rested his hands on Brock's back, letting his fingers stroke the tension out of the muscles there.

Shifting uncomfortably, Winter mused over how much to tell the boy. He was vaguely curious about how much Brock knew, already. The boy had practically been raised by Hydra, surely he had heard _something_ in all that time. "Do you know who I am?" he finally asked quietly, biting his lip.

"Not really. You're Winter. Is that short for something? I don't really remember," Brock admitting, letting go of his hold on Winter long enough to drag him over to the bed so they could sit. Winter settled awkwardly beside him, nodding along to his question.

"Yes. Have you heard stories about the Winter Soldier?" Brock's wide eyed look was answer enough. "Yeah," Winter trailed off, feeling awkward and not quite sure why. Weapons never felt awkward, did they? "That's me. I'm the Asset, but when we met, you told me that wasn't a name, so you said you would call me Winter instead. The name kind of caught on, after that."

Brock seemed to have recovered because he was grinning again. Though Winter could tell that he really wanted to be downright beaming, he was proud that the lessons he had taught the boy all those years ago about hiding his emotions had stuck. "That's so cool!" he gushed quietly. His eyes fell on Winter's left arm, almost hungrily. "I know we've fought before, and I've seen the arm a million times, but I never… I never _realized_ … can I?" His fingers twitched in his lap, like he was holding himself back from reaching out.

Winter couldn't deny Brock this, not when it was such a tiny thing that seemed to make him so happy. He slipped out of his jacket and flexed the arm, watching the plates slide and click against each other. Brock's eyes were hug and awestruck as his hand reached out timidly, stroking over the metal lightly as if he was afraid to touch it. The smile never left his face once.

"Pretty swell, huh?" Winter asked, smirking smugly.

Brock snorted, snickering into his hands, and Winter supposed, because they were alone, he could allow his boy to show some emotion after all. "God, how old are you? 'Swell', really?" His quiet cackling didn't let up, and Winter didn't really get the joke, but he watched his boy fondly all the same. "Come on, old man." He shoved Winter's shoulder playfully, his grin wide and free.

"Oh, you want to start that?" Winter goaded, not sure where the words were coming from, but allowing them to flow from his mouth all the same. He shoved Brock back, a stilted smile of his own stretching painfully across his face. When had he last smiled so wide? He tackled Brock to the floor where they proceeded to wrestle back and forth for a few minutes, until Winter wound up on top, straddling Brock. "I've got you now, _zaichik_!" he crowed, leaning down to flick his fingers quickly across Brock's sides. The boy looked shocked for all of half a second before he devolved into full body laughter.

" _Get off_ , you weirdo!" Brock commanded, shoving at Winter even as he tried to contain his giggles. Winter couldn't wipe the fond look off his face if he tried, but he take pity on his boy as he crawled off of him. From the other side of the bed, he watched as his boy sat up, a playful glare on his face. He couldn't hold it for long though, and instead reached out to snuggled down into Winter's side again.

"Thanks for that, Winter. I think that's the most fun I've had in years," he admitted, voice sounding tiny and exhausted. Winter ran his hand up and down Brock's arm, wishing he could have prevented that. His boy should have been _happy_. He was supposed to have been _loved_. _Cherished_.

"I'm so sorry," Winter whispered into Brock's hair, sniffling as he tried to hold back his emotions. Their time alone was quickly dwindling, and if the handlers found him crying he would be sent back to the chair, immediately. Brock pulled away slowly, looking up at Winter in confusion.

"What do you have to be sorry about?"

The moment the words left his lips, the door to Brock's room swung open and two of Winter's handlers entered, looking slightly less excited than they had been earlier. The briefing must not have gone as smoothly as they all had hoped, even if the mission had been a success.

"It's time to start your training," one of them said, giving Brock a funny look before turning back to stare at Winter expectantly. Winter got to his feet, holding his hand out to haul Brock to his feet, as well.

Following on Winter's heels, Brock continued to give the Soldier funny looks until they wound up in the gym. Transitioning to Russian for both privacy and to test his retention, Winter started right in with the first lesson. Combat had always been Brock's strong suit, even as a tiny child. It seemed that he had not lost that skill.

They continued, much like they had when Brock had been younger. Even though the boy was older now, there was still so much he didn't know. Winter told Brock secrets, advice to keep him safe, words of encouragement and love all hidden beneath a heavy, harsh Russian accent. If anyone ever bothered to translate what the Soldier was saying, they would both be in a terrible amount of trouble. Brock was sneaky, though, and took it all in, his eyes shining with gratitude even when Winter broke his bones or caused him injury. They both knew that what Winter did was a kindness, far kinder than anything Hydra would do to teach him.

They were allowed hours at a time to train together, but were kept far apart from each other when they weren't. Winter wasn't sure what had changed, because he remembered spending nearly every waking moment with his boy when he had trained him previously.

Years passed in this way, until 1994 bled into 1995 which bled into 1996. All too soon, Brock was eighteen and prepping to join the other recruits at the Academy. The boy had never known anything other than Hydra and was going to be put through the Academy as a double agent. Winter was worried for him, of course he was, but there was nothing more he could do for the child. Brock would graduate, join Shield, and do Hydra's bidding in plain sight.

The night before Brock was set to leave, the higher ups had allowed them to have the night together. Winter wrapped his arms around Brock and refused to let go. He wanted to remember his boy, _remember_ _everything_ , and keep him safe right there in his arms. But he knew it was all out of his hands, now. Brock would have to protect himself, as much as he could. He would have to use everything Winter had ever taught him to advantage in order to survive all of this, so they could see each other again. Eventually. He hoped.

"Be good," Winter pleaded with him, squeezing tight. Brock was holding on just as desperately, frightened to be sent away from the familiarity of Hydra that had been his life for so long. " _Please_ , be good. You will be safer that way." Winter blinked quickly, feeling the tears he had always pushed deep down starting to well up in his eyes. He took a deep breath and buried his face in Brock's hair. He could hear Brock sniffling into his collar, still shorter than him but not by much.

In the morning, the Soldier's handlers came for him, right before Brock was to leave in order to catch his bus. Brock stood in his doorway, watching passively as Winter was led down the hall and out of sight. Winter sighed quietly, feeling his heart beating erratically; he knew what came next for him.

The frizzling of his brain, then the cold of the chamber. When he woke up again, his boy would be all grown up. And then what?

It was 1996. Winter remembers nothing but the hopeless feeling rolling through his stomach as they prep him for the freeze. He wonders distantly what could have caused _that_.


	6. Chapter 6

**April 2015**

The tension in the room was intense. The knock on the door had everyone strung tight in agitation. Without thinking, Steve shifted to take a protective stance right in front of the door. His brain was whining and grinding at everything he had learned tonight, but he knew that he couldn't let anything happen to Brock. He would gladly use himself as a human shield for his friend and his friend's son. And _Lord_ , wasn't that still odd to even think about. Bucky had a _son_!

Winter hovered beside Brock's hospital bed, prepared to protect his injured child to death if he had to. The Soldier knew he would gladly die before someone got through him and on to his defenseless boy. A warm feeling spread through his chest at the sight of Steve moving the bar the door, shoulders hunched to make him look even more massive than he already was.

Brock, meanwhile, was subtlety shaking on the bed. It wasn't just from pain but _fear_ , as well. He had always known that Hydra would eventually come for him; he was never meant to live long, and now he was nothing but a burnt up husk of an Agent that could potentially spill important secrets. He had just hoped he would have had more time. _Especially_ now that he knew about Winter.

Overreaction seemed to be the word of the day, though. The door swung open dramatically and Natasha Romanoff sauntered in, hands deep in her pockets and an innocent grin on her face.

Steve practically melted into a puddle on the floor in his relief. Winter was slower to relax, but once he scrutinized her face for one long moment, he slowly relaxed, fists unclenching and arms dropped to hang at his sides.

Brock was still staring wide-eyed at the spy, though. She had _always_ hated working with him, but he didn't really know _why_. Other than mission relevant small talk, he hadn't really ever had an actual conversation with the Widow. Yet she had always given him distrustful looks, staring at him far longer than what was really comfortable, like she could _smell_ the Hydra on him.

For all he knew, she probably could.

Romanoff smirked as she passed Steve, looking both relieved but confused at her arrival. Then she breezed up to Winter, her smile warming ever so slightly; if Brock hadn't been watching her so closely, he might have missed it. She paused at the Soldier's shoulder, staring at him intently, before swinging her eyes around to lock onto Brock. And there was that hate, again; it sent swirls of guilt and pain slinking down to curl awkwardly in the pit of his stomach. He still had no idea what he could have possibly done to her for her to hate him so much, but he assumed she was doubly angry at him now that she knew he had been Hydra all along.

He held her gaze as long as he could, blinking slow and steady like Winter had taught him. The skill had come in handy thousands of times as something that unnerved even the most hardened of rat bastards.

It had no effect _whatsoever_ on the Widow.

Other than, you know, amusement. Instead of awkwardly breaking eye contact, she _smiled_. Not even a real, pleasant smile, but something playing at being a real, pleasant smile with too many teeth and a violent curl of the lips. "You trained him well, Yasha. I recognize that stare from the Red Room." She turned away from Brock to circle around Winter, her eyes wide and searching, like she was hopefully looking for something incredibly important. Winter, for his part, stood up straight and tall like this was an inspection, but his face was soft and indulgent like this was a game they had played millions of times before.

"Natalia," Winter breathed out slowly, sounding so damn hopeful and delighted at her appearance. The Black Widow paused in front of him, her head tilting down which caused her hair to fall in a curtain around her face. Her expression was hidden for a long moment, her back to the rest of the room, and then she was standing tall and erect again. She threw her head back and smiled softly, a nod in Winter's direction her only response. She started wandering again, moving further and further into the room. She reached out to check the window, the vents, the cabinets. Anything she could get her hands on.

"I haven't really been Natalia for a very long time, Yasha." She paused, her limbs frozen like she was made of ice, before she turned around slowly and quirked her lips at him. "But I suppose you might not have been Yasha for a very long time, either. What shall I call you now? James? Or do you prefer Bucky?"

Winter stared down at his feet bashfully, like a little boy, and Brock watched their interaction with a sickening realization settling over him. Winter apparently knew the Widow. Since _when_? He had never mentioned her before! Even as he thought it, Brock rolled his eyes at his idiocy. Winter wouldn't have mentioned her because the chair always took everything away _. Of course_ he wouldn't have told Brock something he couldn't even remember for himself.

"It doesn't matter," Winter said softly, staring down at her like she was the most important thing in his world. Then, sudden guilt washed over his face and his bit his lip between his teeth. His shoulders slumped and he peeked up at her through his hair. "I am sorry that I shot you." If possible, he seemed to shrink even further in on himself, a grimace on his face. "Twice."

It seemed that Steve was just as confused and slightly horrified as Brock, but was more prone to speak his mind about it. "So, wait. You two knew each other, before all of this? Before D.C.?" he asked, sounding extremely thrown by their whole conversation, waving his hands at the two of them huddled together in the middle of the room.

Natasha turned on the super soldier and gave him a frighteningly vacant look. "The Winter Soldier was my teacher for a few years while I was with the Red Room. We tried to escape together once and I never saw him again after we were caught. When he came after me in Odessa, I thought it wasn't the same man. I thought that they had killed my Soldier and simply passed on the title, like they originally had with my moniker. I never saw his face on that mission but when I saw him in D.C., I knew recognized him." She turned at gave Winter a little smile, not sharp or vicious like she usually did, but warm and sweet. "Isn't that right, Yasha?"

Even as Winter smiled back, his lips twitching in response, Brock was silently freaking out on his bed. _Odessa_. Oh, _fuck_. God damned fucking _Odessa_. He had completely forgotten about his first mission as the Asset's handler. He had forgotten that she had been there, that she had been the protection detail on that op, that the Soldier had shot a bullet right through her and had acted strange about having to do it.

Brock watched numbly as the Widow reached out for Winter's hand, squeezing it tightly before turning to meet Brock's panicked gaze once more. "And aren't you going to introduce us properly, Yasha?"

Even as Brock was mentally flailing, he had enough leftover brain power to realize that she knew at least _a little bit_ about their situation if she was asking questions like that. "Uh, right. Natalia, this is my son, Brock. Brock, obviously you know Natalia. I read your file, I know you two have worked together a few times."

Still frazzled, Brock was sifting through his knowledge of the Russian language and was growing more and more creeped out. He may not know everything that a native speaker might, but he knew enough that her use of the name Yasha meant that they had been close. Considering the way Natasha kept touching and smiling at the man, Brock's mind was going deeper and deeper into places he had no wish to be. Ew.

With untrusting eyes, Brock turned to the Widow and gave her a short, unhappy nod. "Widow," he said shortly, still trying to calm himself down.

Her smirk was all spite and malice. "Crossbones," she replied, grinning wide when his scowl only deepened.

Winter glanced between them and frowned, his face scrunching up unhappily. "No. No fighting." He turned back to Natasha with large, watery eyes. "Please, Natalia. I just got him back. Don't do this to me. You don't know everything."

Her face softened and she nodded, looking vaguely guilty about practically kicking Brock while he was down. Brock just looked slightly less pissed off. "So, this is gross. You two together, or something?" Please, please, _please_ say no, his brain whined. He didn't think he could handle that today. Maybe after he was a little more healed and feeling a bit more mature than he was feeling right now. Those painkillers really were a doozy.

Natasha seemed to understand what he was thinking, because even though she kept her hand encase in Winter's, she shook her head ever so slightly. "No, we're not. It was a very long time ago." Though her words were a rejection, she did give Winter a reassuring smile in return. That seemed to calm him down well enough. Brock just sighed in relief, and he saw Steve rolling his eyes near the door, arms crossed over his chest in annoyance.

One big, happy fucking family. Ugh.

 **May 2008**

Winter woke up from cryo in a sort of daze. There was an uneasy feeling settled like a lead ball in his stomach, and wasn't quite sure where it had come from but he knew it couldn't mean anything good. He ghosted his way through maintenance, through his shower, and then through the halls until he was lead into a large meeting room. There were other men and women chatting around the room, most in business suits or tactical gear.

His eyes rose and his gaze zeroed in on Mission Control right away. He hadn't seen the man in years, and it was obvious in the way the man had aged. He was no longer blond or lean or frightening. Now he was grey and soft and slightly less frightening. The sharpness that had greeted the Soldier for years was still there, though, stabbing out at him like daggers.

Control saw him from across the room and his lined face wrinkled with his smile. "Ah, here he is." He reached out and clapped a hand on Winter's shoulder, squeezing tightly and watching Winter with shrewd eyes, just waiting for a reaction. Winter knew this game, though, and refused to flinch or tear his gaze away from the wall.

Control rolled with it, just like he always had. "Yes, well. Now that the Asset is here we might as well get started." He ushered the Soldier into a seat at his right and Winter watched as the others settled in their own seats. The man at Control's left was staring at him. Winter stared right back; there was something about that face, he was sure. Like he had seen it before but also not. Maybe there was something different about him?

"Hey, Winter," the man grumbled, leaning back in his seat with a cocky, crooked grin on his face. Winter tried and tried to think of the man's name, but he was drawing a blank, so he just inclined his head in response and turned to glare down at the tabletop instead.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man's smile falter, cracking for just a moment before coming back full force. "Mind if I introduce myself again, Secretary Pierce?"

Pierce waved him forward, shuffling a few papers in front of him as if he couldn't care less what they were doing. They both knew better, though; neither of them believed he wasn't paying close attention to the interaction between the two soldiers.

The grizzled man stood and came around the table. Winter rushed to his feet in one swift movement, eyes lowered at the man's chest submissively. He saw the man shove a hand between them, his smirk softening into something with a little more longing.

"Commander Brock Rumlow. I'm your new team lead. We'll be heading out on missions together soon." Something inside of Winter cracked and filled him with warmth at the sound of the name. His eyes flickered up to Brock's, meeting for the slightest of moments before Winter was grabbing Brock's hand in return. They shook, Brock's smile morphed back into a smirk again, and they both took their seats once more.

Pierce seemed to be done pretending to shuffle through his papers, so he stared the meeting, keeping a shrewd eye on the way Winter kept staring the tac vest Rumlow was wearing, his eyes vacant and distant.

Their first mission together was agony. Winter wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch his boy, feel the new muscles that had formed on his body, run a finger across his boy's stubble. He was nearly older than Winter now, the Soldier realized with a body shaking fear. Would his boy die before him, then? Or would Hydra decide that Brock was too great of an asset to lose to death? What if they ended up freezing him, as well? The thought was terrifying.

Brock was deadly efficient and brutal in his command, even with Winter. The Soldier knew these sorts of operations like the back on his hand, though. He ghosted through his movements, setting up his nest where he was directed.

They were outside of a city called Odessa and his target was being guarded by a stealthy little redheaded woman with shrewd green eyes and frightening ability with a gun. Something was niggling at the back of his mind the longer he watched her, something strong and weak both at the same time, and his stomach felt like it might revolt.

He needed to kill the man she was guarding.

That didn't mean he needed to kill her, too.

His nest was rejected for an ambush, instead. He couldn't shoot the man from his nest because there were too many obstacles in his way. Instead, he crept closer to the road, Brock right behind him, and waited for the target's transport to roll down the road. The moment it did, Winter waited until they were right upon them before sliding his mask and goggles on and jumping down onto the hood of the vehicle.

He heard frantic movement within and then the woman started firing through the roof. It wasn't long before they were face to face, outside of the car. The scientist was huddling behind the woman, staring wide-eyed at the firefight like this was taking him completely off guard. Brock had remained back on the hill above the road, watching and warning Winter about the woman's movements. It was a fair enough fight but that niggling feeling every time he saw her face just wouldn't leave him be.

After a few exchanges of bullets and swears, Winter finally saw his opening. He met the woman's eyes through his goggles, raised his gun, and shot a single bullet straight through her hip. The bullet pierced her body and went straight through, burying itself deep into the scientist behind her. The target fell to the ground, twitching and screaming until he was still, but by the time the woman turned to look for the shooter, he was already gone.

When Winter met back up with Brock, they hustled away from the scene in a flurry of breathlessness and pumping limbs as they ran. Winter breathed a sigh of relief when the van came in to view; it was fine. Everything had gone fine. Brock assured him that he had done beautifully. And then Winter and Brock were shoved together into the back of the van with the five other agents sent on this mission. Winter stared straight ahead, praying and hoping that he might be allowed to speak with Brock alone at some point. The niggling feeling he had felt around the woman was slowly starting to fade even though he was feeling a little remorse for having shot someone he had had actual feelings about, but Brock was more important. More important than _anything_. If Winter had ruined this mission then Brock would have been punished. And he couldn't have that.

After bumping their way through the city for another hour, they finally arrived at the designated safe house. The team was to wait there for two days until extraction arrived. Hopefully in that time, Brock and Winter would be able to talk privately.

Brock seemed to have the same thoughts running through his mind. He hopped out of the van and immediately delegated tasks to the other agents, telling them to ready the safe house all while he dragged Winter deeper and deeper into the house. Winter was fighting a smile back, his chest warming at the tiny amount of contact between them.

Once they were deep enough into the house that they wouldn't be disturbed, Brock pushed Winter down onto the bed and started pacing in front of him. He ran his hands over his face, through his hair, worrying his lip between his teeth. He kept glancing back at Winter, like it was nearly painful to look at him. Winter remained silent and still, waiting for Brock to come to him.

"Why are you so anxious?" Winter finally asked, patience run out, his face scrunching up in confusion. He didn't remember his boy ever looking this torn or keyed up when they had been together in the past.

Brock's half-crazed laugh wasn't comforting in the slightest. "I'm anxious because I haven't seen you in twelve years and you look exactly the goddamn same, and now I'm in charge of you, and I don't know what to do. I don't want to hurt you but they're going to hurt you when we get back and I really, really don't know what to do!" Brock was practically sobbing by the end, hands twisting in his shirt front like a frightened child. Winter was on his feet before Brock had finished speaking, reaching out to cup his boy's face in his mismatched hands.

"Little one, you must breathe." Once Brock's breathing had calmed, Winter started rubbing his thumbs across his boy's cheeks lightly, marveling over the face that his face was stubbly instead of smooth now. "I can take care of myself, but you need to learn to protect yourself above all else. If you are asked to hurt me, I want you to do it. Do you understand, child? You are more important than me."

Brock looked beyond devastated. "So, you do remember me?"

Winter tilted his head, his lips twitching in amusement. "You know it takes me a while to remember things, but I always remember you. Don't I?" He leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together, slipping his hands down to the nape of Brock's neck. "Yes, I remember my little _zaichik_."

Brock pulled away at that, his face turning an amusing shade of bright red, before he nodded and settled down on to the bed. Winter sat beside him, shrugging out of his tac vest and harness until he was only in an undershirt. Winter was a very patient man, and once he was comfortable, he leaned back to wait for Brock to continue. That couldn't be all that was bothering him.

Sure enough, Brock kept talking, like he couldn't wait to get it all out. "They're going to wipe you again when we get back. You'll forget again. But you'll still be with me and my team, I'll still be your commander, but you won't _remember_." Winter didn't hesitate to wrap an arm around Brock's bulky shoulders, tugging him close into his chest.

"It will be alright, child. We will complete our missions, you will not argue about my treatment, and we will be together. It will be fine." His head fell down to thump against Brock's, stroking his metal fingers across Brock's arm. His boy practically melted beneath his touch, curling himself closer and closer until he was practically sitting in Winter's lap.

"I am proud of you, little one," Winter promised. "You have done so well. You have surpassed all expectations. A commander at thirty years old. That's wonderful."

Brock sighed, his eyes fluttering closed as he breathed in Winter's distinct musk of fun oil and ice, something he had clung to since childhood. Just as they were getting comfortable in their silence, there was a knock on the door. Brock bolted up, stomping to the door and throwing it open, looking two seconds away from murdering the man in the hallway. Winter wondered vaguely if he ever looked that frightening when he was angry.

The tall man on the other side of the door looked slightly shocked at his reception, but recovered quickly enough. "Fuck, Brock. Calm down. I was just letting you know that we've got the place set up and locked down. The others are trying to throw some food together for dinner, so it should be done in about twenty minutes." The man's eyes flickered past Brock's shoulder to land on Winter, where he was sprawled comfortably across the bed. The tall man's eyes widened with sudden insight and he smirked down at Brock, winking sarcastically. "Oh, I see. Sorry for interrupting." The man bowed mockingly and back down the hall, grinning and laughing the whole way.

Brock's face screwed up in disgust as he shouted after the man. "Fuck you, Rollins!" He slammed the door back into place and kicked it for good measure, rolling his eyes and he stomped back over to Winter. The Soldier, for his part, found the whole situation hilarious.

"It is fine, _zaichik_. If they think we are _otherwise occupied_ , they will leave us alone." Brock nodded along grudgingly, settling back on the bed and curling into Winter's side.

"I wish we could just leave. I wish we didn't have to do this shit," Brock admitted in a whisper, trying hard not to meet Winter's eyes.

"You need to be careful who hears you say that," Winter warned, gripping Brock's hand tightly. "You never know who's listening, and talk like that will most assuredly get you killed."

Brock nodded, looking miserably down at his feet. He knew that; he had been raised on Hydra's teachings, he knew exactly what happened to people found to be unfaithful to the cause.

Winter's hand moved up to cup Brock's neck, squeezing him affectionately. "I am so proud of you, little one. And I promise, one day we will leave all of this behind. But that day is not today." He stood then, reaching down to tug Brock up with him. "We should go get dinner. I advise you to prepare for catcalls and thinly veiled innuendo," Winter warned, the tiniest tick of a smile lifting his lips up.

Sure enough, the others were giving them sidelong looks throughout dinner, grinning at Brock and ribbing him in the sides with their elbows. Though Winter had not felt comraderie with his teams or handlers in a very long time, he knew that this was what was happening. A warm feeling spread through his chest as he watched Brock joke and rib right back at his teammates. His boy was safe for now, and he had friends around him. It would be alright. God, he hoped it would be alright.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: TW: burning alive. Just a little mention about it. This is what you guys get out of me when my job consists of folding laundry for eight hours straight; LOTS OF TIME TO THINK. Also there's lots of swearing in this chapter, like, a ridiculous amount. ALSO a ridiculous amount of italics. I also think this will be the last chapter with flashbacks, just because we're pretty much caught up now. Anyway, enjoy!**

Chapter Seven

 **April 2016**

This whole situation was amusing Natasha to no end, but they _were_ on a tight schedule. She glanced down at her watch and smirked, glancing back up at the men all grumbling and watching each other warily. "Well, I guess if we're leaving, especially with _him_ in tow, we might want to get going. The next guard shift should be down in about twenty minutes, and if they notice the others lying unconscious in the hall, it won't be pretty." She batted her lashes at the men who just continued to stare at her incredulously. "Unless you _want_ to be seen breaking a Hydra agent out of a secure facility?"

Winter stared hard at her for a long moment before he nodded and tore himself away from her side in order to hover at Brock's instead. He took one of the man's scarred up hands in his own and squeezed reassuringly. Disconnecting all of the wires and tubes connected to him only took a moment, and a quick fist to the machine that had been monitoring his vitals quieted it down once it started shrieking at them. He spoke as he worked, words soft and soothing, like Brock was five years old again. "It's going to be alright, Brock. We're going to take you somewhere safe." Once he was done with the wires, Winter took an indulgent moment to run a hand through Brock's short hair, then cupped his stubbled cheek before looking toward Rogers for help.

"He can't move quickly like this; I can carry him for now, but I need someone to watch our six. Natalia will take point." The Widow smirked smugly in agreement from beside the door, loading her gun casually as she waited for them. As if she _wouldn't_ have been in the lead, anyway. She scanned the room for anything else they might need while Winter tried to position Brock comfortably in his arms. She snatched up Brock's medical file from the foot of the bed and snuck as many bags of painkillers into her pockets as she could fit. She glanced up to check on the others and saw Rogers staring at Barnes and Rumlow with a look of pure determination on his face. Once Barnes started moving toward the door, Rogers fell into step behind him, keeping a wary eye out on every doorway they passed.

The small group stalked deeper into the hospital together, pausing every now and then in order to allow Natasha to scout ahead. Brock felt like a child, wrapped up in Winter's arms like he was a little boy, but a tiny part of him felt relieved. _They were going to take him with them_. This hadn't just been just a visit or a goodbye. When the Triskelion had fallen on top of him, he had been ready to die, especially if it meant that Winter had the chance to be free once and for all. Now he got to live, and Winter got to live, and they got to do both of those things _together_.

He might have thought he was in heaven, if not for the constant ache in his bones and the pain that jolted up his limbs every time Winter took a step. Brock considered himself a tough son of a bitch and he kept telling himself that he had had worse before, as he tried to breathe through the pain like a pregnant woman at a Lamaze class. Realistically, he had to admit that full body burns and recently healing skin grafts were in a whole 'nother league than bullet wounds or cuts and scrapes.

Winter had his Mission-Face on, focused on getting them out and nothing else, and didn't that just bring back about a million and one memories of missions they had run together. Peeking around Winter's shoulder, Brock saw a scarily similar look on Rogers' face.

It was weird, knowing that Captain America was on his side in this moment, even knowing everything that he did now about the agent that had been on his team and lied straight to his face day in, day out. Brock's American History class had been boring as all hell and he had barely paid any attention during it, but he _had_ listened to Rogers' stories about the good ol' days; about his friends and family when he was feeling nostalgic but couldn't get drunk enough to wallow in it, instead choosing to just sit in a sad pile of misery and tell stories to anyone who would stick around long enough to listen to them.

He knew on a visceral level that Rogers wasn't doing this for him, but for Winter. Because _Bucky Barnes_ was asking him for help, and no way was Cap ever going to deny his best friend anything ever again. And, you know, Brock could live with that, as long as that determination to his best friend lasted long enough to get him out of that hospital and safely ensconced in a safe house far away from prying eyes and maximum security prisons.

Romanoff stalked down the hallway, gun at the ready in case any agents or guards showed up unexpectedly. She peeked around corners, taking her job as point seriously, before moving on until they were standing outside of a stairwell that led to the roof. Brock hooked his fingers through the straps on Winter's tac vest, just like he had a thousand times before since he was just a little kid, and then they started climbing the stairs. Up and up and up, until the door was shoved open and they filed through into the warm Spring night. Apparently they were going roof hopping tonight, and wouldn't _that_ just be a _blast_ with all those healing skin grafts.

Once Brock's eyes adjusted to the dark, it seemed he needn't have worried. There was a sleek helicopter waiting for them on the helipad, the blades starting up the moment they stormed through the door. Romanoff was the first to hop in the back, reaching out to hold the door open for the others. Winter situated Brock on the floor as carefully as he could before climbing in after him. Rogers was the last to hop in, slamming the door shut behind himself before settling down on the other side of the redheaded spy.

"Go, Clint!" she shouted once everyone was situated, slamming a hand against the roof in case he hadn't heard her. The chopper shuddered beneath them and Brock groaned, Winter instantly hovering in his line of vision and looking deadly worried.

"Are you alright?" he asked, shouting over the sound of the helicopter blades as they started to gain altitude. Brock just turned to glare at the Widow, who was smirking nonchalantly as she examined her nails. Her green cat's eyes flickered to him for a moment, looking cheeky and amused at the situation, before she drawled out, "What, Rumlow?"

"You brought _Barton_? What am I saying, of course you brought fucking Barton. Should have just _assumed_. You two are a package deal more often than not."

"Guilty as charged!" Barton shouted back from the front, the grin evident in his voice. Brock just groaned again and leaned into the floor beneath him, his eyes fluttering closed in annoyance.

"Please tell me someone pocketed some pain meds before we left?" he grumbled, not even bothering to open his eyes.

And, because his eyes were squeezed shut, he couldn't react before a heavy bag landed on his stomach. He heaved in pain, arching up from the floor in order to shove the bag off of himself. _God_ , but that had _hurt_!

"Fuck you, Romanoff!" he complained, curling up on his side. He did reach out to unzip the bag though, finding a healthy supply of morphine and oral pain meds. "Alright, I take it back. You're a goddamn angel. Where the hell did you get this bag?" he veered off wearily, poking the backpack full of painkillers like it might disappear.

She didn't answer, just winked and went right back to playing on her phone instead. Brock rolled his eyes at her; fucking sneaky Russian assassins. Not that he was complaining, really; the contents of the bag held enough pain medication to last him _at least_ a month. He rolled back over and glanced up at _his_ sneaky Russian assassin, which was actually _his_ _father_ , which was fucking _mind blowing_ and _not_ something to be thinking too hard about while they were running for their lives. Well, _he_ was running for his life, and Winter probably was too. The others were just vaguely breaking the law by breaking out one fugitive and harboring two.

Brock felt the exhaustion crashing into him like he had just run head first into a wall, and let his eyes shutter closed once more. After a few moments, something cool and metal settled over his forehead. He leaned into the touch, knowing that it was just Winter being his overprotective self. The assassin had always been a tactile man, for as long as Brock could remember. He had had to hide it in front of the handlers and any higher ups, but when they had been alone, Winter had taken every opportunity to show him he cared. He hugged Brock, held him, ran his fingers through his hair _all the time._ In truth, Brock had missed that closeness whenever they had sent the Soldier out on missions without him, or when they had stowed him away in cryo for years at a time. It was painful to live without those touches for so long, so he was going to be selfish for once and enjoy every bit of affection that the man was willing to give. The metal hand started stroking through his hair, then down his cheek, and Brock let himself relax again. Winter was here and he wouldn't let anyone hurt him. Of that, he was sure.

He dozed for a while, slipping in and out of consciousness, until he felt the chopper hovering and then slowly descending. He cracked his eyes open and rolled on over, peeking out of the window. They were in the middle of a field, so they couldn't be in the city anymore.

Romanoff was the first one out of the cabin, waiting for Winter to curl Brock into his arms once more before taking off toward the garage. Rogers followed right behind Brock and Winter, hefting the bag of medication over his shoulder. Brock looked around curiously; they were just in an empty field, surrounded by tress so that the helicopter would have some sort of cover. About a hundred feet from their landing spot was an old rundown garage, and he watched as Romanoff shoved the sliding door up to reveal three vehicles. She made straight for the modest sized SUV in the center and slid behind the driver's seat. Barton hopped up to the shotgun seat, still smirking, and Winter and Rogers followed suit. They shuffled into the back seats, Winter laying Brock down gently in the furthest row of seats so he could stretch out. Winter and Rogers scrunched themselves up into the middle row.

"All ready?" Romanoff asked, cranking the key to get the SUV started. There were affirmative grumbles from the back and then she was tearing out of the garage and down a bumpy dirt road. Brock groaned about his lot in life from the back seat as he was thrown around; Romanoff really seemed to be getting unbelievable joy from throwing them all around with her fast driving and tight turns.

It was, frankly, a bit ridiculous.

Barton settled down comfortably in the front seat like it was all no big deal, taking the time to kick his feet up on the dashboard and lean back in his seat, his arms crossed over his chest. "So," he called back to the others in the back seats, "is anybody going to explain why Rumlow's here and why the Winter Soldier was carrying him all princess-style?" He twisted at an unbelievable angle to meet Rogers' eyes. "I mean, whatever and all, but Nat just said that we were ghosting you and your icy buddy away in case things turned nasty. _However_ , I see things did not turn nasty and we also have an extra body tagging along now. So. _Spill the beans, Cap_."

"Brock's my _son_ ," Winter snarled protectively, his voice no less threatening for how soft he spoke. He glared at Barton as if he might refute his claim, but the archer was just watching him with wide eyes, looking shocked and surprised. "Hydra's taken him away from me for long enough, and I won't let anyone else have him ever again."

Barton gaped at him in shock for all of .2 seconds before he was grinning and laughing again, reaching out to pat Winter's shoulder amicably. "No worries, buddy. I'm not going to touch him, promise. I was just curious, is all." Then he craned his neck, trying to meet Brock's gaze in the back seat. "But _da-yum_ , Brock! Winter Soldier's your old man, did you hear that?"

"Yeah, it's news to me too. Just found out like two hours ago. Still processing back here." He waved a negligent hand at Barton, then closed his eyes and tried to fall back asleep. Knowing Barton, though, no one would be getting any sleep until he was, too. That man never shut his mouth if he didn't have to.

"Sweet, man." Then he turned back to Romanoff and started talking her ear off instead. Rogers settled back into his seat, apparently happy to just relax and stare out the window until they reached their next destination. Winter watched the others for a long moment before he settled himself sideways in his seat to lean his chin on the back of the bench, content to just watch Brock breathe in and out for a while. Brock felt his skin prickling beneath Winter's gaze and cracked his eyes open minimally, meeting Winter's look for a second before smiling lopsidedly.

"Hey, Winter," he grumbled out, tilting his head sideways so he could look up at the man clearly. Winter's lips ticked up, more of a smile than Brock had ever seen on him before, he was sure. The man reached out and slowly stroked a finger across Brock's brow.

"Hello, _zaichik_." There was abrupt amused spluttering from the front seat, and then Barton was crowing with loud, obnoxious laughter, slapping his knee and leaning back to grin at them all. Winter glared at the archer, confusion clouding his mind, his hand now resting protectively over Brock's chest.

"Did you just call him 'bunny'? Oh, God. Rumlow, I'm really sorry. But I will _never_ take you seriously _ever_ _again_. Bunny! Oh, fuck. Nat, did you hear that?"

Winter gritted his teeth while he glared at Barton. "I have called him that since he was just a little boy. You _will not_ ruin it," the Soldier growled out stiffly, his fingers tightening their grip on Brock's shirt. If looks could kill, Barton would have dropped dead the moment he opened his mouth.

In the tense silence that followed, Rogers perked his head up and turned to look at Winter. "What's the story behind that?" He kept his voice calm and inquisitive, trying to de-escalate the situation before it came to punches and swearing.

Rogers' honest curiosity seemed to catch Winter off guard. He blinked owlishly at Rogers for a long time before the tiniest of smiles brightened his face. "I met him for the first time when he was five years old. I had just returned from a mission, and they left me alone with a child that was just wandering around. I didn't remember that they had told me I had a child, but I recognized something in him. He followed me to the training mats and I showed him a few exercises, started teaching him Russian, too." Winter chuckled, the sound coming from deep within his chest, his smile widening as he glanced down at Brock's mortified face in the back seat. "He gave me a name, so I gave him one in return. He was hopping around so much, it just slipped out. The name stuck." He shrugged like it was a perfectly normal occurrence for someone who looked as gruff and threatening as Brock Rumlow to be called 'Bunny' for most of his life.

Brock was grumbling in the back seat, but it was halfhearted at most. Winter flicked his nose playfully when the grumbling got louder, then turned to face Rogers with a cocky smirk, an air of pride radiating off of him. "Everyone's parents have embarrassing stories about them," he declared smugly, and Brock just groaned louder.

"Sorry to cut story time short, but we're here," the Widow stated dully, pulling to a stop in front of a deserted house in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Now that they weren't in a rush to get away, Brock decided that he was going to get inside that safe house on his own two feet, no matter what. He still had to lean heavily against Winter's side, but at least he stepped over the threshold more or less under his own power. Winter dropped him down on the sofa and then disappeared, probably to secure the perimeter a few dozen times and set some traps for anyone stupid enough to try to sneak up on them.

Rogers watched Winter disappear further into the house with a sad, longing look on his face. Brock shifted uncomfortably on the sofa for a moment, drawing all the attention back to himself. Romanoff was cleaning a gun in the seat across from him, eyeing him with thinly veiled distrust. Barton had discovered the kitchen and was banging around in there, probably trying to find something to fill the bottomless pit that was his stomach. Rogers slumped down on the other end of the sofa and rubbed a hand over his face, looking exhausted. Brock wasn't sure he had ever seen the man anything other than totally put together before, even with his uniform in scraps and covered in dirt.

Brock hadn't said one word, but suddenly Romanoff and Rogers were both staring at him, eyes scrutinizing and intense. He wasn't sure what had brought it on, but suddenly the look seemed to bleed out of Rogers' eyes until he was simply smiling sadly down at Brock instead.

"What the hell was that for?" he wondered out loud, feeling emotional whiplash.

"Was just trying to see any of Buck's family in you," Rogers admitted, rubbing a hand against his neck, his cheeks faintly red. "I'm actually really surprised I never noticed before." Rogers leaned closer to him and smirked. "He's right, you know? You do have his nose. His eyes, too. And God, the way you act sometimes is just like his little sister, Becca. She was a spitfire when she was little, sassy and smart-mouthed." He reached out to tug on a lock of Brock's hair, product free for once in his life. Brock mourned the lack of his hair gel, because he was a vain motherfucker and wasn't afraid to admit to it, but he guessed that the hospital staff hadn't much cared what he liked to do with his hair while he was unconscious. "Now that you don't have all that goop in your hair, I can tell it's the same texture as Bucky's Da's. Seriously, I don't know how I missed all of this."

"You weren't looking for it," Winter said from behind the sofa, making Brock jump half out of his skin at his sudden appearance. Winter was smirking down at him, reaching down to slide his flesh fingers through Brock's floppy hair consolingly. "I thought the same thing about Becca, though. Even when I couldn't remember who 'Becca' was."

"Finished your safe-house inspection, you control freak?" Brock sniped, swatting Winter's hand away from his hair while simultaneously shifting closer to the edge of the sofa, making room for Winter to perch. He took the open spot happily and sprawled out between Brock and Steve, legs stretched out in front of him. He looked so content as he grinned up at Brock that the man had to look away; he had never, in all these years, seen Winter so happy or content.

A hand wrapped around his own and he looked down to see Winter's metal fingers threaded through his own. He squeezed tightly, closing his eyes shut before he was overcome by emotion.

They had _finally_ done what he had always asked, for all those years; Winter had finally gotten them both away from Hydra. Sure, they were now fugitives, but that was way better than being under the control of secret Nazi bastards. Looking around at the little group of misfits that had helped them out, Brock had the overwhelming feeling that perhaps, _maybe_ , they might get out of this all together, in one piece, after all.

 **August 2014**

Brock hadn't seen the Soldier in almost two years; the man had been on ice for quite a while, shoved back into the freezer almost immediately after they had returned from their last mission together. The Commander was hoping that, what with the fast approaching launch of Project Insight, they would finally thaw him out to help. He knew deep in his bones that Rogers was going to be a problem; the higher ups all thought they could sweet talk him to their side, but Brock had _actually_ spent more than five minutes with the man.

And after all that time with the Captain, Brock had learned that Rogers was one of _the_ most stubborn, strong-willed, hard headed assholes he had ever worked with. Management couldn't seem to understand that, no matter how many times he tried to explain Captain Rogers to them, examples and video and first-hand accounts included.

Pierce had called Brock to his office for his standing orders and Brock was dreading the oncoming shitstorm sure to follow. God, but all he wanted was to grab Winter and make a run for it, but he knew that they wouldn't get very far at all by themselves.

The Secretary stood behind his desk, leaning on his fists as he hung his head, staring down at a file spread open in front of him. It was quickly discarded the moment Brock stepped over the threshold, shoved closed and hidden away in his desk. Brock didn't even give the motion a second glance; he had seen Pierce more frazzled in the past, and he knew not to say anything out loud.

The Secretary _was_ frazzled, though, and angry too if the look in his eyes was anything to go by. He stood tall and shoved his hands into his pockets, staring at Brock like it was the first time he had laid eyes on him. Pierce grimaced, a motion so quick and fleeting that Brock almost questioned seeing it.

"Rumlow," he said, nodding his head at the younger man. Brock hovered in the doorway, feeling unsure but knowing he couldn't show Pierce anything but his swagger and his smirk. "Get in here." When he waved Brock further into his office, Brock did as he was told and settled at parade rest in front of his desk, staring at Pierce's left ear, just like Winter always did in order to avoid eye contact. "I know you've been working with Rogers for some time, now. I already pitched the offer to him, but he refused. He doesn't _know_ me, doesn't trust me further than he can throw me. _You_ , though. He might trust _you_. At least enough to let you get close enough to take him down if he isn't expecting it." Pierce scowled down at the file he had hidden away in his desk before continuing. "Take as many men as you need. Bring him in as quietly as you can." Brock was shocked, and it took a huge amount of strength to not show it on his face. By the look on Pierce's face, there was going to be no arguing these orders, but that didn't mean that Brock had to _happy_ about it.

So, instead of reacting, Brock clicked his heels together and straightened his shoulders out before nodding to the Secretary. "Understood, sir." And then he was stomping his way out of the office and towards the elevators, instead. He had his men moving within seconds, but he already knew how this was all going to end. Why did he always get stuck with the worst jobs?

And, sure enough, after being electrocuted with his own stun batons and slammed into the roof of the elevator, Brock woke up to find the floor covered in his own men, no Captain Rogers, and a gaping hole in the glass where one of the walls was supposed to be.

With a sigh, he glared at the hole, already putting together the pieces of what had happened after the Captain had knocked them all out. The blank emptiness where the wall should have been was answer enough to where the hell Rogers had disappeared to after their little scuffle.

The bridge had been a goddamn _disaster_.

The Asset was supposed to be a damn _secret_ for a _reason_. Instead, there was now (albeit, shaky) video footage of the Soldier in action against not only the Black Widow, but Captain America, too.

Fucking _news stations_ and their stupid, nosy _helicopters_.

It had all started out okay enough. On the overpass, the Soldier had stalked across the concrete with purpose, using and discarding his weapons as needed. Brock hadn't met up with him before they had been sent out together, but just by listening to him, Brock knew he had only just been thawed out. He was barking at the other agents in Russian, his eyes solely focused on his mission even though they were covered with the tactical goggles. Brock sighed with a heavy heart while he watched his mentor; the man had been recently wiped, he could tell, which would only help them with this mission, even if it hurt Brock to think about it. A wipe always left Winter feeling achy and confused, but when they presented him with a mission while his mind was still reeling in chaos, it seemed to distract him from his own body's aches and pains. Silver lining, Brock supposed.

Brock had to remind himself multiple times that he was supposed to be in charge here, even as he watched the Soldier stomp off after Romanoff, leaving Rogers to the rest of them. Commander Rumlow knew from his experience on the Captain's team that that big, blond fucker definitely wouldn't be going down without a fight. He also knew that the damn idiot had no sense of self-preservation, which always led to him doing stupid shit like jumping out of airplanes _without parachutes_ like it was _no big deal_. Obviously, the stakes were way higher now so he would doubtlessly be about a million times _worse_.

Rumlow followed Winter down to the street where his Soldier was facing off against Rogers, Romanoff apparently down for the count or just in the wind. Rogers looked devastated, his face contorting in pain like someone had just torn his heart from his chest, as he stared at the Soldier. Winter had his gun up and cocked seconds later, and then there was the Widow, pouncing onto his shoulders and trying to garrote him across the throat. They struggled, Rumlow breaking into a sprint to try and get to him in time before he was hurt. The Commander wasn't needed, though; Winter threw her off easily, using his metal hand to protect his throat from the wire. The Widow went careening through the air, slamming into a car across the street. Rogers was still standing there frozen, and it only took a moment for Brock to pounce on them while they were distracted, getting the Captain on his knees and into the reinforced cuffs they usually used on the Asset. The Soldier had disappeared, like the careful man he was, the moment Rogers had fallen to his knees.

When they stopped to unload the prisoners, Rumlow had to admit that he wasn't all that surprised to find the van empty. It was just his fucking luck.

Everything that had gone wrong ever in the history of this operation was apparently all Brock's fault, at least according to Alexander Pierce. The man hadn't stopped shouting at him for more than two hours and seemed to be taking great pleasure in pointing out every mistake Rumlow had made all day while turning alternately purple and sickly white.

Winter was positioned right behind Rumlow, still shaking ever so slightly from the vicious wipe the Secretary had brought Brock to witness. Winter had apparently known Rogers somehow, or at least recognized him. Brock felt bad for the man at his back; he knew Winter craved his memories, hoarding them for as long as he could, and fought tooth and nail inside whenever Pierce took them away. There was nothing Brock could do to help him, though, but be there for him when and where he could without getting them both in trouble.

Pierce paused to take a breath and Rumlow raised his head, sensing an opportunity to break the rant. He stared Pierce down once he had his attention. "I'm sorry, sir, but don't we have more important things to be dealing with right now? Rogers got away and he's had a few hours to go to ground and start planning his next move; probably already picked up some allies, too." He raised his eyebrows at his boss, while also simultaneously shaking in his boots. He had _never_ talked to Pierce like that before, but he was _tired_ and _upset_ and _done_ with all of this man's _shit_.

If he thought he could have done a better job, then he was _more_ _than_ _welcome_ to get his ass on the ground and figure it out. Brock had never wanted this goddamn life, anyway, he fumed to himself. The solid, comforting presence of Winter at his back was the only thing holding him back from screaming at the Secretary.

Pierce's face shut down immediately, his eyes cooling to ice while his mouth stretched out into a thin, tight line across his face. "I'm giving you _one more chance_ , Rumlow. _Don't_ screw this up." He waved them away and Brock gladly slunk from the room, Winter hiding in his shadow, a step behind.

After Cap's soul-rousing speech over the intercom, more than half of the agents in the room were looking unsure, determined, or frightened; it pissed him off to no end to notice that some of those agents were supposed to be true-blue Hydra. If only he could turn turncoat, too; but _no_ , he had _Winter_ to think about, not to mention _himself_ , and he knew for a fact that you never truly _left_ Hydra. Not for long, at least.

Rumlow was an introspective man, and he was well aware that he had a lot of faults. One of those faults was that he was an impatient bastard even on his best days, and this was definitely _not_ one of his best days. _In fact_ , this day was so far from good that he was nearly drowning in the shit. So, _naturally_ , since the techie kid was taking his sweet time figuring out which side he wanted to be on, he drew his gun and pressed it against his head to _speed things along a bit faster._

The moment his finger was on the trigger, he heard the distinct click of another gun not three feet away from him. Fucking _Carter_. She had hated him from day one, and now she was probably patting herself on the back for having such good character-reading skills.

He could practically hear her inner monologue as she pointed her gun at him; _knew it knew it fucking KNEW IT_.

And then shit hit the fan _again_ , bullets flying everywhere, and when the kid ducked beneath his desk to get out of the line of fire, Brock took his chance and jumped forward, initiating the Helicarrier launch with a few punches of the keys. He could hear them starting up from the control room; his job was _done_.

Winter had to be on one of the Helicarriers; it had been the Asset's last mission, to protect Insight and eliminate Captain America. But Brock knew where this would all end the moment he realized that Winter had known Rogers, somehow. _Winter would break, remember Rogers or whatever past they had together, and he would let the good Captain live._ Winter would probably disappear then, ghost away into the resulting chaos that would no doubt follow this massive cluster fuck of a bad idea.

He would leave Brock behind.

Rumlow was on his way to the top floor to meet up with Pierce but instead ran into the man with the wings that had been following Rogers around for the last two days like a loyal little puppy that could also fly and sometimes shoot guns at you.

Rumlow felt he was taking the title 'Wingman' _a_ _bit too seriously_.

Brock spouted off some Hydra bullshit about pain and order that he had heard at every stupid meeting he had attended for the last twenty-five years. In fact, he had probably heard one variation or another of that _stupid speech_ since he was just a little baby. With a grimace of determination, Brock threw himself into the fight. He didn't even know this guy's name, didn't really _care_ , but Brock was having a _really shitty day_ and he just really needed to punch someone in the face. _Repeatedly_. It was _therapeutic_.

When he saw the guy's eyes widen at something happening behind him before turning tail and sprinting across the room, Brock just knew that his day was about to go from bad to terrible. With a sense of growing dread, he sighed and turned to see what was so bad, and saw a Helicarrier heading straight for them, already beginning to tear into the side of the building.

" _Fu_ -," he breathed in exasperation.

He _tried_ to outrun the debris sent flying from the crashing Helicarrier, even if he didn't really know where the hell he was supposed to go once he crossed the room. There was nowhere to really hide but he knew he had to _try_. Brock was _not_ going to die laying down. Winter would be _so_ disappointed in him.

The cloud of dust and debris surrounded him before he could get too far, anyway. Something slammed into the back of his head, knocking him to his knees. He couldn't see anything but the dancing black spots in his vision and he was having a hard time breathing through the dust.

And, as if _that_ wasn't bad enough, then all he could feel was a wall of heat at his back before he blacked out for the last time. The smell of frying meat hit his nose ( _not_ the most reassuring smell when you find yourself caught in a _fire_ ), and he realized, distantly, that he was roasting alive.

He cringed at the pain until it became just too much, before he finally blacked out on the floor. The cool presence of unconsciousness was a welcome escape from the pain, and he just really hoped that even if he didn't make it, Winter would.

Maybe Winter would remember his past, maybe he would find Rogers and start recovering from all his years with Hydra and whoever he had been with before that. He could recover from the conditioning and the torture and the mind wipes and have an actual, real life. Something worth living and everything. The thought of Winter finally breaking free, even if it wasn't with him like they had planned for so many years, filled him with a cool sense of calm, making his last moments light and freeing.

It would be okay to die, he supposed, if it all meant that Winter had finally broken his chains.


	8. Chapter 8

It took Brock all of two minutes on that sofa, watching all the others scatter around the house haphazardly, to realize that there was _no way_ they were going to be able to survive cooped up in this tiny little safe house for long. Too many big personalities in too-close quarters was bound to lead to someone butting heads eventually, probably sooner rather than later.

Romanoff produced a modest pile of guns out of nowhere, along with a polish kit, and set to work dismantling and cleaning her weapons in the corner. Brock's gut clenched at the sight; cleaning guns when under stressful circumstances had always been one of the Widow's few nervous habits, something Brock had noticed more than once in their time together on the STRIKE team. And if the Black Widow was nervous, you knew right then and there things were headed downhill fast.

In the kitchen, they could just make out Steve's shuffling footsteps and Clint's quiet admonishments in response. Rogers was prone to alternately hovering and holing himself away when stressed; he needed people around him, until he inevitably annoyed them and then he would wander off by himself to simmer in his anxiety alone. It seemed he was stuck on hover-mode at the moment, going by Clint's muttered curses and exasperated huffs as he no doubt ran into the Captain multiple times. After several minutes straight of this, it seemed Clint had had enough and kicked the man out of the room.

Steve re-entered the living room looking like a lost puppy, his lips pouting and his eyes wide and hurt. He turned to Natasha but saw what she was occupying her time with and grimaced; he had noticed her nervous tick, as well. Then his eyes fell on Winter, hovering near the window so he could scan the surrounding woods for any threats. Steve's face was worn and his eyes full of longing in that second, staring at his friend hopelessly but being ignored for all of his trouble. Then he turned to look at Brock and found that he was the only one in the room returning his gaze.

The Captain looked so frighteningly young standing there, stuck in the doorway with slumped shoulders, so exhausted and untethered, skittish and worried about his friends but rebuffed at every turn.

Brock took a deep breath before turning to look at the others around him, waiting for someone to take charge of the situation. When no one reacted, he realized he was going to have to be the one to break the tension, for the simple reason that he was probably about 99% the cause of it; Winter maybe played into that last 1% left over. No one else was even pretending to notice the tension though, and Rogers (the only other possibility to fix it) looked too exhausted to even try. Thinking tactically, Brock supposed that if he calmed the Captain first, the others were sure to settle around him.

"Rogers," Brock called out, jerking the man's attention back to him. The blonde scowled, his face scrunched up unhappily, and Brock relented with a smidge of guilt. A tiny smile played across his scarred face as he said, instead, " _Steve_ ," softer and more friendly; not soldier to soldier, but friend to friend. _Family_ , even. The reaction was instantaneous: Steve softened around the edges, grateful smile ever so faint but there all the same; Romanoff, Natasha, paused in her cleaning just long enough to give him a bewildered look, before resuming her task as if she had never moved; and Winter, he turned just so in order to better evaluate the scene, smiling with his eyes even if his lips remained pinched tight together.

"Come sit over here, you giant puppy," Brock finally said, patting the cushion beside him. "Your worried face is making me nauseous just looking at it." He had found out early on that insulting the Captain made him far happier than complimenting him ever had, and Brock had happily run with it. It was good to see Steve's face relax for the first time all night.

Steve, for his part, only put up a token protest before collapsing on the sofa beside Brock, practically radiating his distress. Now that someone was actively paying attention to him, though, he should calm down in moments. He really was like a puppy dog, craving attention from the people around him. Sure enough, once Brock made eye contact and started up a simple, easy, empty conversation, the man's shoulders relaxed, his lips ticked up in a small grin, and he was practically melting into the cushions.

Usually when Rogers was stressed out, he just wanted someone to pay attention to him without having any ulterior motives. Rumlow had gotten very good at handling Steve and his mercurial moods; they _had_ spent a ridiculous amount of time with each other in the months leading up to the battle in D.C.

During a comfortable lull in the conversation, Brock sighed and settled more comfortably into his pile of pillows, turning to face Steve head on. "Tell us a story, big guy," he cajoled, smacking a hand against the blonde's big, meaty shoulder. "One I _haven't_ heard before, though," he warned. He had to admit to himself, there was only so much patience he had to hear for the thirtieth time about that one time Rogers had jumped on top of a dummy grenade in boot camp or even that time in '31 where he and Barnes had played lookout for a group of bootleggers.

Steve smirked, obviously reading his thoughts plainly on his face. Then he glanced over at Winter, trying to be sneaky and failing miserably, before a mischievous look slid across his face. Winter was still at his post near the window looking disinterested and bored, but then Brock noticed the sparkling amusement in his eyes and knew there would be trouble from whatever came next.

"Alright, fine," Rogers relented, like Brock had had to twist his arm to get him to open his big mouth. "If my _favorite nephew_ wants a _story_ ," he sung out playfully, waggling his eyebrows with a laugh, and Brock felt his face go red instantly.

"Well, by that logic, I am also your _least_ favorite nephew. Thanks a lot, old man," Brock shot back, trying to ignore that squirmy feeling that had made a reappearance in his gut; it was still really, really weird to think that Steve Rogers, _Captain America_ , was his honorary uncle. Hell, it was still weird to realize that _Winter_ was his father.

Surprisingly, though _not really_ in retrospect, Steve did come up with a story that Brock had never heard before. That was due, in a large part, to the fact that the story was a load of horse shit. Brock was pretty much completely convinced that Rogers was just making it up as he went along.

Seriously. They did not fight genetically engineered Nazi dinosaurs during World War II. That was definitely something Hydra would never have shut up about, if they had.

The man wasn't even being original, either; the little shit was ripping off Jurassic Park left, right, and center. His innocent routine was taking a hard hit, too, because he kept peeking looks over to Winter's corner of the room, obviously anticipating some sort of reaction.

Halfway through an epic battle between a T-Rex and Sargent Barnes' appropriated flame thrower, Winter seemed to have had enough, his face twisted up in astonished despair as he stomped his way across the room. He only stopped when he was knee to knee with the other super soldier, glaring down his nose at him.

"You are a terrible liar, not to mention a _little shit_. Fucking punk!" he pointed out, waving a finger in Rogers' affronted face.

"I don't know _what_ you're talking about, Buck," he threw back, trying to keep a straight face but steadily losing ground against his smirk. He batted his eyelashes innocently up at his friend and Brock smothered his laughter. The little bastard. "That's how I remember it!"

"Dinosaurs? Really?" Winter asked, like that was evidence enough of Steve Rogers and his _Lying Ways_ ™. "Even after all the shit they did to my memory, I think I _really_ would have remembered that. The Nazis had some crazy scientists, sure, but none of them were _that_ crazy." He paused for breath before his face scrunched up in confusion. "Was the part with Peggy and the rocket launcher supposed to get my attention, or were you just having an aneurism?" When Steve didn't answer, just let his smirk out full force, Winter rolled his eyes and slapped the back of his friend's head.

Brock felt his own lips stretching out into a content smile. He looked across the room and noticed Natasha's little hidden smile as well, so small and jagged but _real_ , all the same. She caught him watching her and her smile turned more wicked; she gave him a wink before she set her gun down on the table, sparkling and shiny from the care she had shown it, and sighed.

Alright. Steve was calm and happy, Natasha was done fidgeting and obviously felt markedly less nervous, and Winter was distracted from the window by his new overwhelming need to pick on Steve instead. Looking at them together, it was almost like the last seventy years hadn't happened at all.

By the time Brock was done taking inventory of his group's emotional wellbeing, Winter had Rogers in a headlock and was smirking like a shark with its prey. Steve was laughing so hard he was turning red in the face. The hold Winter had on the man's throat was hardly there at all, easily broken, but it seemed Steve was perfectly content in the ring of his arms.

And then Winter's gaze lifted and he met Brock's curious eyes. Winter looked soft and warm in that moment, far lighter and more carefree than Brock had ever seen him before. One look at him and Brock felt his heart clenching painfully in his chest. _Rogers_ had been the one to make Winter look like that, not Brock. He suddenly felt incredibly inadequate in this equation, not sure where he truly figured in.

Winter had broken programming for Rogers, by refusing to kill him on the Helicarrier.

Winter had also broken programming for Brock, if on a smaller scale, by remembering him after every wipe.

But it wasn't the _same_.

Winter didn't seem to feel any of that conflict, though. He gave Brock a tiny quirk of the lips from above Steve's flailing head, before letting him go and standing up straight once more.

"Come," he said to Steve, tugging him out of the room and into the kitchen without another word. Steve followed without complaint, smile hazy and pleased.

He wasn't sure what they were doing in there, or how long they would take, so Brock decided it was probably safe enough to take a bit of a doze while he could. They would wake him if anything important happened.

Instead, he was jerked awake minutes later by a mug being shoved into his hands, steam hitting him full in the face along with the strong scent of hot chocolate. He cracked his eyes open to find Winter's hands wrapping around his own, the mug held gently between them. Winter was leaning over the back of the sofa, arms settled on either side of Brock's shoulders as he gave him a light, calm look back.

"Thanks, Winter," he croaked, his throat having gone harsh and gravelly after so long silent. Winter nodded, his eyes lighting up happily, before he reached out to run a hand through Brock's hair, scratching at his scalp affectionately.

Rogers was still in the doorway to the kitchen, grinning like an idiot. His expression was pure nostalgia tinted with fondness. When he noticed Brock watching him, his grin softened and he shrugged the moment off easily. "Buck's always been a taking-care-of-people sort of guy. Guess some things never change."

Winter snorted and turned to smirk at Steve. "Just 'some things', huh?" he snarked back, taking a menacing step towards Steve even as they both smirked even harder. Brock just rolled his eyes; they were like two teenagers roughhousing with each other.

They ended up sprawled out on the floor between Brock and Natasha after twenty minutes of playfully rough wrestling that ended with a broken coffee table that no one would miss. In the silence that followed, the only sound was Barton's continued stream of quiet cursing from the kitchen and the boys panting on the floor. Brock sighed into his mug and relaxed at the warmth it produced in his body.

And then Romanoff was shuffling through one of the bags at her feet as if she had just remembered something incredibly important. She produced a big bottle and lobbed it at Brock's lap. The man fumbled, trying to keep a hold of his mug and catch the bottle simultaneously. When he checked the label, he wasn't quite sure what to make of the gift.

"Lotion," she revealed unhelpfully. "For your skin. It's going to be very dry because of the burns. You have to keep it hydrated or it'll be even more painful," she revealed, slightly more helpfully.

Brock looked over the bottle with new eyes, feeling slimy fingers of distress worming their way into his chest, even if he knew he was being irrational. He _hated_ owing people. Even hot chocolate probably wouldn't help the feeling go away completely. "Uh. Thanks, Nat," he choked out anyway, forcing a bemused smile onto his face. Her expression was carefully blank, but he noticed the spark of shock in her eyes seconds before it was gone again. She had always been Romanoff or Widow to Rumlow, on mission and off, but he supposed he was going to have to change that, given his current circumstances.

A lot of things were going to have to change, he mused. Hydra wasn't hanging over his head anymore, dictating his way of life; his actions, his thoughts, everything was under his own control for the first time in his entire life. It was both exhilarating and frightening now that he thought about it. Hydra wasn't _gone_ , but he had powerful allies on his side to protect him and Winter from them. This opened up a whole new set of possibilities for them both. He didn't have to by Hydra's good little homegrown terrorist anymore.

Now that he was older and more world-wise, Brock could easily look back on his life and pin point moments where he had obviously been manipulated or even downright brainwashed. They had brought him in as a young, impressionable child and raised him to _believe_ in Hydra. There had never been a choice in any of it; it had either been Hydra or a shallow grave, and he had known it. He had just never thought to question it when he had been younger.

Brock yawned into his empty mug, clutching the lotion bottle to his chest and blinking in exhaustion. It was probably almost time for another dose of pain medication, and that would definitely send him either into Loopy Land or a deep, deep sleep.

Winter's eyes zeroed in on Brock from his spot on the floor, head lolling in his direction, eyes crinkling as he took in the picture of his boy curled up and sleepy. Rogers had turned to look too, his expression indulgent and warm.

"We should probably turn in for the night," Steve said delicately, rubbing a hand across his clear eyes as if he were tired, too. Brock could see how bright his blue eyes were clear across the room, and knew that the man was obviously still running high on adrenaline, if nothing else.

He rolled his eyes but pulled himself to his feet nonetheless. "I'm exhausted. I'm taking one of the beds down here. Wake me up if something terrible happens." He snagged a packet from the bag of painkillers and turned around, ready to head to bed, only to run right into Winter. The man was poised and ready to follow him straight down the hall.

"Not going to keep guard?" Brock joked easily, allowing Winter to tow him down the hallway and into a bedroom, depositing him on the bed gently after kicking the door shut.

"Get ready to sleep," Winter ordered instead of answering, producing another bag out of nowhere and chucking some clothing Brock's way. He shook his head in amusement but did as Winter said, struggling his way into the soft pajamas.

Meanwhile, Winter wandered around the room, checking for bugs and stashing weapons as he went. Once Brock was finished dressing, panting and heaving but _clothed_ , Winter handed him one of the painkillers before snatching up the bottle of lotion. He read the fine print on the back carefully and then popped the lid, squirting some out onto his flesh hand.

"What are you doing?" Brock squeaked, startled, staring at Winter in confusion. Surely he wasn't planning to-

"Natalia said you need to hydrate your skin. Skin break down will cause more pain," he stated dully, like Hydra's Asset. And then there was a flash of emotion as he said playfully, "Besides, you cannot reach _everywhere_ on your own." He raised a brow at Brock, daring him to argue. Brock could recognize Winter's stubborn face anywhere though and just sighed, giving in. Winter looked so smug and happy at that that Brock couldn't rightfully hold it against him. He was only looking out for him, after all.

"Fine. Come here," he sighed, tugging his shirt up so Winter could rub the lotion onto his back. He was going to be so sticky later, he groaned to himself. Winter made quick work of his back but didn't stop there, simply moving on without a word. His boy just rolled his eyes and remained quiet, knowing there would be no arguing with Winter.

The uneasy tightness in his stomach made a third appearance that night, and Brock fidgeted uncomfortably. He must have given his thoughts away somehow, because Winter stopped immediately, his face creased in concern.

"What, uh-," Brock mumbled, stumbling over his thoughts as his words decided to leave him. It had _never_ been difficult to speak to Winter. Things had changed so drastically in the last few hours, though, that he wasn't quite sure where he stood anymore. "What do you want me to call you now?" he blurted out, the first thing that had popped into his mind. "Is Winter okay still?" God, he hoped so. "Or do you prefer Bucky? Or James?" He was rambling and he hated it. "I draw the line at Dad, though," he joked, feeling ridiculous as he tried to bring levity to the situation and only succeeded in falling flat on his face.

Winter didn't hesitate a moment, reaching out to cup Brock's cheek with his metal hand, stroking his thumb against the uneven skin there. He broke eye contact to lean forward instead, pressing their foreheads together gently; Brock secretly loved moments like this, where it was just him and Winter, close enough to breathe the same air and hear each other's heart beats.

"You may call me whatever you like, little one. I have to admit, though: I've been Winter for far longer than I've been Bucky Barnes. I suppose I'll answer to either." In a very rare show of deep affection, Winter leaned forward again, this time to press a hard, affectionate kiss to Brock's cheek before pulling away, returning to his previous task like the air wasn't dripping with emotion.

Brock, however, couldn't ignore it. He felt slightly stunned; the painkiller probably wasn't helping his brain's ability to function, either. Winter hadn't been so loving, so damn _demonstrative_ in _years_. Brock had assumed Winter had been too worried about them being watched, but Brock had still missed it. It felt nice to know that Winter hadn't withdrawn his touches and kisses and hugs because he had stopped caring about Brock; the man moved through his little loving gestures like it was reflex once more.

Winter hadn't kissed Brock in years, and the action had started the slow unfurl of something heavy, tight, and ugly in his chest: a fear that had been festering for years that Winter had moved on, forgotten him, or felt he had wasted his time on Brock. It was freeing to know that none of that was true. To his chagrin, the unfurling of the thing in his chest wasn't the only thing coming apart. His eyes were prickling with tears as he blinked hard and quick, trying to keep them at bay.

"I love you, Winter. You know that, right? If I could've gotten us out of there, if I could have come up with a good plan, you know I would have." The lump in his throat was crushing his words, leaving him feeling strangled and short of breath. He was afraid to try and speak again, in case he started sobbing once more. He wasn't sure his pride could take that blow to his pride twice in one night.

Winter carefully capped the lotion bottle before wiping his hands on his pants, a nervous little gesture that left Brock feeling frightened and empty again. Oh, why did he open his big fat mouth? The Soldier was kneeling in front of Brock, eyes down and face blank, until he tilted his head to meet Brock's gaze and smiled, bright and true and sad. "Little one; _oh_ , my little one. That was never your job. You were a _child_ , raised to believe in Hydra, yet you still grew to be a fine man, with a conscience despite them trying to burn it out of you. Through all of this, you knew the things they had us doing were wrong. If you could have left and survived, you would have. None of this is your fault."

He stood up and pushed Brock back onto the bed, tugging the blankets up around his child's shoulders. Winter didn't hesitate, easily crawling into the bed behind Brock; he smiled contently when Brock relaxed completely for the first time all night. Brock sighed, reveling in the knowledge that he wouldn't have to watch his own back anymore, that was what Winter was for.

Winter curled up around Brock, careful of his injuries, pressing his cold nose into Brock's nape and wrapping his mismatched arms around his boy's chest. "My poor little _zaichik_. I love you so much." He pressed another rare kiss to Brock's temple, hearing his child's shaky inhale and hitching breath and hating it. "My poor boy. Everything's going to be alright now. We're safe, and Stevie and his friends will protect us."

They didn't speak after that. Winter waited for a long time for Brock's breath to even out and fall into a regular rhythm before he allowed his own eyes to flutter shut, calm and content in the knowledge that he had found his son, found his boy, and they were both together and safe now. Nothing would tear them apart ever again.

Steve stood outside of the door to Brock's room, frozen in dismay. He had overheard their entire conversation, not on purpose, but he had still heard every word. He felt sick and dirty inside for eavesdropping on such an intimate talk, but he truly hadn't meant to. He had been passing by the room on his way to the bathroom when he had heard distressed sounds coming from behind the door. He had been worried and stopped just for a moment to make sure everything was alright, but when he had picked up on what they were talking about, his feet had become one with the floor and he had been stuck.

Brock had wanted out of Hydra.

Bucky had said something similar earlier in the evening, but Steve had thought it just a father's blind faith in his son to be a good person. Bucky had said that Brock had been raised on nothing but Hydra ideals and teachings, but now that Steve really thought about what that must have entailed, he realized that it sounded a hell of a lot like Brock had been raised in a cult. If they had never let him learn anything that hadn't been heavily watered down by Hydra idealism, then Steve could see how he might have grown up to be just another loyal soldier for the cause.

But Bucky had said that Brock had been bright enough to realize things weren't on the up-and-up at a very young age, managing to hold onto his conscience with white-knuckled desperation in secret, even if he had rarely had the opportunity to use it. Brock genuinely sounded broken up about his failure in breaking them both out of Hydra's grasp, even though Steve had to agree with Buck that that should have never been on a child's shoulders to begin with.

The more Steve heard, the more the picture of who Brock was in his head changed.

"I love you, Winter," he heard through the door, tiny and broken and longing; Steve's heart nearly broke right then and there. When Brock's breathes started hitching again, he tried to wrench his body away from the door, closer to the door, swaying in between, fighting with himself to help or stay away.

Instead, he just swayed in a no man's land of indecisiveness; he didn't know if his attempt at comfort would be welcome, or if he should pretend like he had never heard any of this.

Bucky comforted Brock like he was a little boy, soft words and loving promises. Something cold and hard that had been lodged deep in Steve's chest shattered and fell apart at the sound of Bucky's voice, Bucky who Steve had always thought would make such a good father. Bucky had had three younger sisters that he had doted on almost more than his own parents had; he had taken younger, smaller children under his wing for years and years, even during the war; when Steve had watched Bucky fall from that train in the Alps, one of his guilt drenched thoughts had been that Bucky would never have that family he had dreamed about and it was all Steve's fault.

Brock didn't deserve any of this; the more Steve heard, the more he believed him. Steve hadn't known, hadn't understood all of the facts before and he still didn't, really, but he wanted so desperately to do right by his best friend. Brock and Bucky _deserved_ the right to recover and live in peace after all they had been through.

Steve was still rooted to the floor in front of Brock's door when he heard the telltale sounds of Bucky crawling onto the bed, undoubtedly beside Brock to keep him company. The Captain stared down at his feet, feeling conflicted and unsure, until Natasha appeared from around the corner. She took one look at the door and swiveled her gaze back to Steve, eyebrow raised in reprimand.

He nodded, face heating, embarrassed at being caught; her presence was just the thing to break the spell on his feet, though. His feet detached from the floor and he stumbled down the hall after his friend. She rolled her eyes at him fondly, towing him back to the kitchen and sitting him down at the table. She let him get settled before she threw a tablet down in front of him.

"What's this?" Steve asked, reaching out for it without a second thought. His eyebrows shot to his hairline in surprise once he realized what he was looking at. It was Rumlow's SHIELD file. "How did you get ahold of this?"

"I called in a few favors. You have to admit, there's something off about Rumlow. Just going by the damage the burns did to him, he _should_ be dead right now. _Instead_ , he's just really, really scarred. And even those aren't as bad as they should be. So, I went digging." She tapped the screen once more and another file bearing Rumlow's name popped up. "This is Rumlow's Hydra file. Much thicker than his SHIELD file. The first one I found was pretty heavily redacted, but I found an original copy in the file dump once I knew what to look for. I'm guessing he's never seen this one."

And Steve could see why she would think that. The Hydra file had information on Brock running all the way back to his mother's pregnancy. He read closer and corrected himself: his surrogate mother's pregnancy. It turned out that they had used in vitro fertilization and then implanted the egg into a surrogate womb, before handing the healthy baby boy off to a loyal Hydra underling. It seemed that the scientists were more than a little disappointed that the Soldier's Serum hadn't been passed down genetically to the son. The file told them loads and loads of things that might be important, a little window of facts into Brock's life that the man himself might not even know.

And then Steve saw what had, no doubt, had Nat looking so shaky earlier.

"They were testing Serums on him?!" he shrieked, appalled at the list of injections and experiments they had run on a two-year-old child. He read the reports and felt sick to his stomach at the details.

 _Metabolic shock_ , _cardiac arrest_ , and _grand mal/absence seizures_ stared out at him from the screen to count just a few, and they made him shake in silent rage. To think that a tiny, vulnerable little Brock had been subject to all of this at such a young age sent Steve rocketing from rage to despair and back again as he read more and more about the experiments and failed Serum after failed Serum, until finally they had found something that seemed to work. It wasn't like Bucky's or Steve's, nowhere near as potent, but it worked, if at a slower rate and not with as fantastic results. When he got to the end of that section of the report, he thought he might be sick.

By the time they had found a Serum that worked, Brock had been eight years old. He had started asking questions about the shots and experiments and was growing more and more averse to being cooperative. He had even attempted to tell the Asset about what was happening, but a guard had stepped in before the Asset had understood what the boy had been trying to tell him. When that had happened, they had deemed it too great of a risk and _put Brock in the Chair_. At _eight years old_. The new Serum running through the boy's veins had been the only thing that had kept him alive through the excessive shock treatment.

Steve shoved the tablet away. His earlier doubts about how to treat Brock were rearing their ugly heads again. There was no way Steve was going to be able to look at Brock like he was just another Hydra foot soldier ever again. Brock hadn't had any more choice in any of this than Bucky had!

"This is bad," he gritted out through his teeth. "This is really bad. Bucky's going to go mad."

Natasha studied Steve for a long moment before she sighed and picked the tablet up again, fiddling with it uselessly. "Maybe we can use that to our advantage, though," she proposed quietly. "He'll probably want revenge for his son. If he's angry enough, tearing down the remains of Hydra may be a great form of therapy for him. He can channel all that rage into destroying the people responsible."

"You want us to use him? How would that make us any better than Hydra?"

"Because we wouldn't be brainwashing him, for starters?" she hissed right back. Clint hovered behind her, looking pale and drawn but determined. He must have read the file over Natasha's shoulder, earlier. It didn't help that any mention of brainwashing usually sent him down into a spiral of memories about Loki, often leading to at least one panic attack.

"All we can do is give him the information and see what he wants to do. If he wants to go out and kill every fucking Hydra agent out there, we'll be right there to help. If he wants to stay in hiding and coddle his kid until he's healthier, then we can support him in that, too. Either way, he won't be alone in this." Clint was often the voice of reason in their little group, especially now between Steve's fury and Natasha's emotional whiplash.

"This is such a shit-show," Steve grumbled after a long, silent moment, resting his face in his hands. His life had been so simple this morning; now, he was harboring two fugitives and not feeling even the tiniest bit guilty about it.

This was his life now.

It seemed Natasha and Clint agreed with his assessment of the situation, groaning and slumping down in response.

"Damn straight, Cap. Fuck our lives." Steve couldn't have said it better himself.


	9. Chapter 9

It was probably a good thing that they had asked the Soldier to talk while Brock was still passed out comfortably on his bed, dead to the world for at least another hour or so thanks to the painkillers. Winter was sure any possibility of Brock seeing his face so twisted up in rage, as it was in that moment, would only hinder his boy's healing; he was still so weak, so miserable, so exhausted. Brock had seen him this angry only twice before, and Winter was sure he could remember just what exactly had taken place those two times. His boy had seen him leap over the edge of sanity those two times he had let his fury reign over him. Winter was sure he would not want to see the results ever again.

Still, in the sanctity of his own mind, the Soldier _schemed_.

He was going to rip apart every single head of Hydra that he could get his hands on. He was going to tear their regime to pieces. They had _dared_ to hurt his boy. They would _pay_.

The little Widow, the one he remembered but also did not, could not, had handed it to him the moment he had stepped through the doorway. No words, no explanation, just a tablet and a meaningful look. The archer and the Captain were seated at the table, looking pale and guilty as they watched him settle beside them with wide, sad eyes.

Why did they look so sad. So miserable.

He understood once he began to read the file the Widow had handed him. He had been taught how to use electronics over the years; every time they had thawed him, there was some new gadget or technique that he had needed to learn before being sent on his mission. The tablet was simple to him, but he found it harder and harder to flick to the next page the further he made it into the file.

He didn't get very far before something snapped beneath his fingers; he watched with a sick satisfaction as the screen with the ugly words and horrible descriptions faded into black. His face was blank, but his eyes were blazing with his fury and pain. What they had _done_. What they had _wrought_ on his poor, poor boy.

They would _burn_.

He threw the tablet across the table, watching the others follow its path until it landed in front of Romanoff. She glanced up at him through her lashes, a long-buried memory attempting to resurface at the way her face softened, her eyes fluttered shut, she sighed lightly, but he shoved it away viciously. He didn't want memories of the girl she had been a lifetime ago when he had known her; he wanted to _murder_ _someone_.

But first, he needed answers.

"Tell me. I can't read that filth," he spit out, glaring at the tablet like it might spring back to life with the file and everything in black and white right there for everyone to see.

He would probably shoot it a few dozen times, just on principle, it if happened to somehow do that.

"They took Rumlow, experimented on him from birth. They tried out different versions of the Serum on him until one stuck. He was eight, and he was starting to realize that something wasn't quite right. They got wary of him asking questions and decided to put him in the Chair, instead." The Widow tilted her head down towards the table, demure and apologetic, but her eyes were locked on his own, reflecting his indignant anger right back at him. " _Your_ Chair. They wiped his memories so there was no chance of him telling you what they were doing. They didn't want you fighting them for him," she said with a smirk, and Winter echoed it right back. They both knew what he was capable of when he broke programming.

Winter's eyes closed of their own accord. His body was shaking minutely from the stress of trying to contain all of his rage and fear, even as he berated himself and screamed uselessly in his mind. He had known they had done things to the Winter Soldier, because that was just how the world worked; the sun rose in the East, the Earth moved around the Sun, and the scientists experimented on the Winter Soldier. And, he supposed, he had known, or at least _suspected_ , that they were doing something to Brock, as well. Maybe he had never wanted to admit it to himself while he was trapped beneath layers and layers of brainwashing, because he couldn't do anything about it, but it had still _happened_. He remembered pondering over Brock's odd increase in strength, in agility, in cognition. The Soldier had _known_ , and done _nothing_ , preferring instead to live on in ignorance because it had been _easier_. He was disgusted with himself, with how weak, how stupid he had been.

But Brock had always seemed so perfect, whenever he had been allowed near him, he reasoned manically to himself. He was never shaken or frightened or wary of the other Hydra members. But that was a lie he had told himself back then, that he refused to tell himself now; there had multiple times over the years when he had found Brock shaking and sobbing, huddled on the floor of a supply closet or a bathroom stall and refusing comfort, because there was no comfort to give.

They were stuck in Hell, but at least they were stuck there together.

Until they weren't.

Winter should have worked harder to break his binds. He had used the limited wiggle room the programming left him to remember Brock's face, remember his love for his boy, but he had never gone further than that. He had never even _tried_ , too afraid of the consequences. Winter was a _coward_ , the worst sort of person, too afraid to even attempt an escape with his boy. And because of this, because of his _cowardice_ , Brock had suffered, and he didn't even _remember_.

He didn't know how _furious_ he should be with Winter.

The Soldier felt numb, but he wasn't too detached from himself not to know that this would absolutely _destroy_ Brock.

 _Never again_ , he vowed to himself, and swore that he would be more courageous, even if it killed him. _Never again_ would Hydra touch a hair on his child's head. They had taken too much already.

"Brock does not find out about this. None of it. Not yet," he whispered, blinking his eyes open to stare at the others. He let them see his pain, his fear, his anger, but most of all: his determination. "No one speaks a _word_."

The silence surrounding them was crushing as Winter waited for them to answer. Surprisingly, the archer was the first to speak up.

"Hey, man. No problem, here. He's your kid, it's your choice what you think he should know. Personally, I wouldn't wanna know how screwed over I got if I was in his position. Ignorance is bliss, and all that."

Barton turned to look at Romanoff, but Winter wasn't worried about the Spider. He knew she would remain silent, unless it served her to do otherwise. But he trusted her judgement; if she thought Brock needed to know, then probably _did_.

No, it was _Rogers_ Winter was worried about. That man wore his heart on his sleeve at the best of times; in a time of crisis such as this, there was no knowing what he might babble accidentally. At least with the reminder of a promise to his best friend hanging over his head, Rogers might think twice before telling Brock anything.

Rogers sighed, searching Winter's face like there was supposed to be some important message there. But Winter knew for a fact his face was wiped clean, blank and empty while his eyes bored a hole into Rogers' face, daring him to say 'no'.

Of course Steve Rogers would never say 'no' to Bucky Barnes. "I won't tell him anything, Buck. I promise. Like Clint said, it's your decision."

Winter nodded, feeling the fight and the anger starting to fizzle and fade the longer he sat there, realizing that these people truly were on his side. On _Brock's_ side, even. His shoulders drooped as he felt the exhaustion from the past few days bulldozing into him all at once. He closed his eyes, pressing his thumbs into them and sighing when he started seeing stars.

He needed to calm down. He also needed to destroy Hydra. He desperately needed a better plan than ' _find all of the Hydra fuckers ever and show them why they should fear the Winter Soldier'_. But Brock was still so hurt, still recovering after having a _literal_ _building_ fall on his face. And they had been separated for so many years now, the very thought of leaving his side sending a very real and very inconvenient panic attack his way every single time. The only reason Winter wasn't hyperventilating right that moment was because he could hear Brock's breathing from his seat at the table.

"Do you have a plan," he asked, voice empty and exhausted. He was just so tired. He wanted nothing more than to just crawl back into bed with Brock and hold him close, wrap him up and never ever let him go. The world had been very cruel to Brock, so demanding and violent and horrible.

The others must have picked up on his mood, because suddenly they were all converging on him. Rogers reached out to wrap an arm around Winter's shoulders, squeezing and tugging in a way that said 'I'm with you, no matter what'. Romanoff's chair scratched across the floor as she shifted closer to him, her small hand wrapping around his own larger ones. Barton, the archer Winter had never met before this night, set a hand on his shoulder as well, patting lightly.

"We will proceed however you like," Romanoff started. Just by the way she was speaking, Winter knew she was staring at him, studying him, waiting for a reaction. "You haven't ever been allowed to be with Rumlow in a safe place for an extended amount of time, have you?" she asked softly, already knowing the answer. He just shook his head, tilting his head so his chin was resting comfortably on his chest and he wouldn't have to meet anyone's searching eyes. He felt like he was moments away from tears, but he wouldn't cry. Not now, not yet.

Romanoff seemed to debate her next words before pushing on, her expression fierce and vicious. "How about this?" she asked, waiting for him to look her in the face before moving on. "Rogers, Barton, and I are going to start doing recon on Hydra. We'll start looking for them. Meanwhile, you can stay with Brock and help him recover. Then, once we have locations and schematics, we can all meet up again and work together to take down the sites we find. That way, you can get your fill of Rumlow and destroying Hydra. Win-win."

The Soldier let his lips tick up ever so slightly, letting her see his gratitude and appreciation without having to say a word. He checked on the other two, the Captain and the archer. They seemed on board with whatever plan the Spider came up with, so he was content following her lead. At least just this once.

"The plan is acceptable." He pushed away from the table, shrugging off the multiple hands on him, and stood tall. "I need to go check on Brock," he choked out, his voice strained and cracking as he felt his resolve melting around himself. He rushed from the room in three quick strides, the door to Brock's room clicking open and shut seconds later, and the three remaining at the table sighed in unison.

The silence was more comfortable this time, not laden with the fear or anger or regret that seemed to follow the Winter Soldier around like a bad smell.

Romanoff produced another tablet from seemingly nowhere, presumably beginning the search for their first Hydra base while Clint flopped down into the Soldier's empty seat. Steve leaned back in his own chair, looking lost and exhausted.

A long stream of loud banging sounded from behind Brock's closed door, followed by some extensive cursing that could only be coming from Brock's mouth, and then Brock was stomping into the kitchen looking rumpled and personally offended in his brand new blue plaid pajamas.

"Alright, what did you guys do? Why did Winter just throw himself onto my bed, waking me up from a very good sleep, by the way, and then proceed to lock himself in the bathroom? It sounds like he's destroying stuff in there, too, so I hope no one has anything they would like to keep hanging out in there, because it's probably not going to survive." As if to prove his point, they heard the sound of glass shattering coming from the bathroom, and then what sounded suspiciously like a hairdryer.

Rogers, Romanoff, and Barton traded loaded looks, which did not pass Rumlow's curious gaze, before Steve shrugged after sending Rumlow an apologetic look. "We were just going over our next steps. We decided we're going to start looking for Hydra holdouts. While we're doing that, Bucky's going to stay here with you until you're feeling better."

Rumlow looked shocked into silence for a long moment, before he collected himself, glaring off at the far wall so he wouldn't have to look any of them in the face. "Okay. But that still doesn't explain the bathroom tantrum."

"He was reading through some files I found in the Hydra dump online. He was not very happy about whatever he saw," Natasha stated vaguely, still flicking her way around her new tablet. Everyone pointedly ignored the smoking, cracked tablet on the other side of the table, though Rumlow saw it and smirked, rolling his eyes in indulgent amusement.

Rumlow was still smirking over the broken tablet when Steve continued. "While we're all holed up here, we should also probably think about how we're going to get Bucky's and Brock's names cleared."

That sent Rumlow scowling at the wall again. He looked uneasy, like he was still reluctant to believe that they had any reason to be on his side. "Winter deserves that more than me, Cap. Don't waste your time trying to come up with excuses for me; I knew what I was doing. Besides, I can live under the radar fairly easily. I was a small enough fish in the Hydra pool that they shouldn't be after me specifically."

Steve stared Rumlow down until he was shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, looking anywhere but at the Captain's stony, determined face. "Maybe, maybe not. I'd rather be prepared for the worst case scenario, if possible. We'll work on cases for _both_ of you," he said with finality. Rumlow sighed but didn't push any further, knowing that Rogers was too stubborn to fight with. Instead, he settled himself at the table, poking half-heartedly at the broken tablet, that satisfied smirk slowly returning.

"Know any good lawyers that definitely aren't Hydra, then?" he mused out loud, poking at the tablet again and laughing when it threw a spark his way.

No one said a word for a long moment, long enough for Rumlow to look up and search their faces, wondering if he had perhaps said something wrong. Instead, he found them with intense looks of concentration. And then Barton grinned wide and proud, waving his hand around like he was a kid in a classroom. "I think I know a guy," he revealed, looking self-satisfied and smug as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

With Pierce suffering from a fatal bullet wound to the chest that he definitely wasn't getting up from, Hydra had been sent into a flailing nosedive. It hadn't just been Pierce's death that had nearly destroyed the organization; the Widow's brilliant plan to throw _everything_ onto the internet and call it a day's work had been _murder_ on their anonymity.

Which had kind of been the idea, he supposed, but it was the _principle_ of the thing. You just didn't _do_ _that_ , not to a _spy_ organization. For Christ's sake.

Gideon Malick had always been the sort of man that found opportunities in the oddest places, and then held on to them with white knuckled determination. He took every chance he could get and it had paid off, first with a seat on the World Security Council, and then in the position of advisor to President Ellis himself. He had been hiding and manipulating and scheming right beneath everyone's noses for years. It wasn't his fault that no one had looked close enough at his plans and projects and advice to figure out he was actually one of Hydra's many, many heads.

He had been playing catch up for the last few weeks, while simultaneously dealing with Garrett's pet monster Grant Ward, not to mention to the whole Inhuman fiasco going on with what remained of SHIELD.

And while he had been sifting through all of Hydra's files that he hadn't had high enough clearance to see earlier, he had found something very interesting attached to the Winter Soldier's folder. The attachment had been hidden behind so much encryption that it had taken a good few weeks to crack, even with the best technicians he had been able to track down working day and night on it. They were _the best_ , though, and highly motivated not to die, so the problem had been taken care of as quickly and quietly as possible.

And the results had been more than worth the wait.

Malick scanned through the file, already quietly plotting to himself. Recovering the Winter Soldier had been at the top of every self-respecting Hydra agent's To Do List for the last year and a half, but now it seemed they were going to be adding one more asset to that warrant.

Ward sidled up behind him, settling into parade rest slightly behind and slightly to the right of him. Reading over his shoulder, no doubt. Malick rolled his eyes, cursing the fact that he had no choice but to work with the sadistic brat. But, he _had_ managed to gather a surprising number of followers in the wake of Garrett's untimely demise, so Malick supposed the kid was useful for _something_ , at least.

"Tell me, Ward. What do you know about an Agent Brock Rumlow?"

Ward looked shocked for a moment, glancing up at the screen the showed Rumlow's SHIELD I.D. photo. Malick watched his reaction closely, but didn't put too much stock into it; from what he understood, most people assumed he was either dead or locked up at the Raft. And then Ward's lips twitched until he was laughing up at the screen, his teeth bared in a vicious smile, his empty eyes suddenly taking on a new life.

" _Well-_ ," he began, and proceeded to tell Malick _everything_.


End file.
